Postnuptial Disagreements
by Zalgo Jenkins
Summary: Years after his parents survived Heaven's Feel, the son of Kayneth and Sola-Ui finds himself in a different sort of supernatural tournament. But can he survive superpowered alien females, scheming businessmen, and his own partner's urge to strangle him?
1. Chapter 1

When people ask my why I found myself in Tokyo (en route to Fuyuki) at exactly the wrong time, I usually let them off with a quick explanation like "bad luck" and leave it at that.

Not that I blame them for their curiosity. The El-Melloi family is not known for its love of travel. Even Japan, with its exotic magic and equally exotic bloodlines, only tempted my father and mother into its clutches once. Once was enough. The seven-way ritualistic bloodbath known as Heaven's Feel consumed most of its participants. If my father hadn't been an incredibly talented magus...

...Well.

I stared out the window. Mountainous cottonball clouds rose below us. The sun glared in my eyes, refracted through the drops of ice that stuck to the window's exterior. A stewardess pushed her aluminum trolley down the aisle, stopping at my seat.

"Sir, can I interest you in-"

"Tea," I said.

While I probably could have asked for alcohol, I wasn't sure about the drinking age on the flight. All things considered, I preferred not to go through the annoyance of pulling out an ID only to be second-guessed by hired help in a skirt.

"I'm sorry, but we don't-"

I rolled my eyes.

"_Iced_ tea, then."

She forced a brainless smile onto her face and put a clear plastic cup on my tray. The can opened with a metallic pop. She poured it - badly.

"Oh, dear. I'm _so_ sorry, sir..."

Naturally. Not that she'd spilled the tea on just _any_ suit, mind. No, this was a family heirloom: the suit-robe combination that my father had worn as a young man. And...

I looked down.

Yes. She'd gotten some iced tea on my shoes as well. I could see a stain on their otherwise-shiny black surface. A stain. On _my _shoes.

Oh, sure, I could get _most _of it out with a simple spell, but that would be difficult in the confines of a plane with so many witnesses. I'd have to wait hours. Multiple hours. In a stained suit.

"You're _not_ getting a tip."

"Um...stewardesses don't get tips."

I glared at her. She shrugged and moved on to the next person. In retrospect, it probably would have helped if I'd known about airline tipping etiquette ahead of time.

My education as the scion of the El-Melloi line had left a few gaps, apparently.

_Please fasten your seatbelts. We will be descending soon..._

Ultimately, I suppose I'd come to Japan because I was curious. My parents hadn't spoken much about the Heaven's Feel. It _had_ changed them, though. That much I'd gleaned from others. The Lord Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi who'd stepped off the plane from Japan had seemed humbler, somehow. Chastened. He no longer ripped into students with hour-long question-and-answer sessions during his lectures at the Clock Tower. Admittedly, he still showed the same frightening abilities as a magus that he'd always possessed from time to time...But.

My stomach churned a bit as I felt the plane take a slight dip. Orange-yellow light shined in my eyes as it reflected off the wing. The iced tea (the portion that wasn't on my _clothing, _anyway) swished to the far end of the cup.

I did a quick fluid manipulation. My tea stayed in place.

Strangest of all, my mother and father had shared occasional touches after they'd returned from Japan. Simple enough gestures, you might think; a light brush on the shoulder, a holding of hands. Most people wouldn't have found anything amiss about it. They'd been fiancees, after all.

Granted. But Sola-Ui Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri had never been a warm person. And neither had my father. The way that they'd clung to each other after their experience begged for explanation.

"Mellowed" had been the general consensus.

I don't like one-word answers.

And so, on my first vacation from the Clock Tower's classes, I found myself bound for Japan. Several notebooks in my bag awaited my research in Fuyuki City. The authorities had covered up most of the traces of Heaven's Feel, but I doubted they'd gotten everything. And the El-Mellois are nothing if not thorough antiquarians. I'd find whatever existed.

The plane touched down half an hour later.

* * *

Soon after I landed, I made the questionable decision to take a former roommate's advice and headed for the shopping district.

I arrived at some mall or other a short time later. The mega-corporation known as MBI had made a lot of changes to the place in the last few years.

Every gadget imaginable lined the windows: electronic maids, walking umbrellas, and even a prototype backscratcher with artificial intelligence (I lost interest when one of them shouted lewd comments as I passed. The backscratcher, not the maid). Businessmen in monochrome black suits rubbed shoulders with blue-haired girls in miniskirts. All jabbered their irritating language, usually into small plastic-and-glass boxes that I assumed were some cross between a phone and a computer.

Amid the bustle of the "New" Tokyo, I didn't initially notice the creature ordering ice cream from a vendor. She soon remedied this, however.

"What do you mean you don't have strawberry-mint-oreo-toffee flavor?"

I felt a flare of power, and turned.

Whatever it was, it had taken the shape of a girl. She was a few inches shorter than I, lithe and teenage-looking except for slightly more mature hips. Her pink hair was drawn up in an elaborate mess of hair clips, a pony tail, and who knows what else. Not that it looked _bad_ necessarily. In fact, it looked somewhat fetching in a barbaric sort of way. Especially when combined with her short-shorts and loose, black gi-top. Complete with a giant red bow, no less...

...In any event, the creature's reddish-pink hair should have tipped off at least some of the bystanders to her identity. Whatever it was. The group of black-suited, sunglasses-wearing men around her, at least, seemed to know what was what. Their muscles tensed when she raised her voice.

And right now, the creature was _definitely_ raising her voice.

I learned later that this particular conversation had been going on for a while by the time I'd happened across it. I suppose this partially explains her frustration.

"Look, buddy...it's not hard. You've got strawberry, right?"

The vendor whose collar she'd grabbed wisely nodded.

"And you've got mint?"

Another nod.

"And I can _see _toffee and oreos in your toppings drawer. So why don't you just mix 'em all together like a good boy and make me my strawberry-mint-oreo-toffee ice cream?"

"B-but there's only one topping allowed! And if I mix the mint and the strawberry, I won't know whether to charge you for mint, or strawberry, or-"

The creature gave a rather disturbing smile.

"How much would you charge for your cart's wheels?" she said.

"I'm not sure I ever considered it, but..."

I like to think that I kept watching this scene purely out of academic curiosity. After all, you don't run into a new Type of supernatural creature every day. The alternative - that I watched purely to see a suicidally oblivious commoner get his Darwinian just deserts - seems in poor taste.

Not that I didn't smirk when the creature ripped off the cart's front wheels and crumpled them into a ball. Which, looking back on it now, was not my brightest decision.

"And what are you smiling about, _gaijin_?" the thing growled.

Saying "nothing" would have been a good move. Running away at full speed would have been better.

"Nice ball," I said. "I can't help but notice that you still don't have your mint-strawberry-toffee-whatever cone, though."

I am told on good authority that I can be obnoxious. Not endearingly or charmingly obnoxious, mind you. Just obnoxious. I blame that for what happened next.

The creature's lips curled up in a snarl. Her gloves - which looked like tiny pink boxing gloves, of all things - squeaked as she curled them. She smacked her right fist against her palm so fast I nearly missed it. The resulting _pop_ sounded like a gunshot.

I made what was probably my first well-advised decision of the day and reinforced my legs. The creature must have felt something when I did, because she seemed to hesitate for a second. She shook her head as if to clear it.

And then, she turned to one of her escorts, who flinched.

"Pay the man for his cart," she said. "I have other business to - ah - uh..._Oh_."

The creature's eyes glazed over. She was breathing far more quickly now, and seemed to be having trouble with her chest, since she was clutching it with both hands. Her face had become beet red. A wave of shudders passed through her body.

I took the opportunity to dash for the nearest escalator. While I didn't know what the increased body heat, shaking, and reddening face presaged, I didn't want to take any chances.

"H-hey! Wait!"

Unlikely.

I took a flying leap down an escalator. The reinforcement held out well - my legs got enough spring to almost reach the bottom. My aim, however, was off. A toddler in a green jumpsuit and a baseball hat stepped onto my intended landing point. I avoided him, but hit the railing in the process. Consequently, I pinwheeled off the escalator to the accompaniment of his laughter.

And fell about a floor.

"YAAAAAAGH-OOOMPH!"

Cursing fate for my less-than-expert reinforcement skills, I scrambled up and hobbled toward the exit. I heard a loud clap behind me. The creature's boots had landed on the linoleum floor. If I'd been looking, I'm sure I could describe her graceful, swallow-like landing in excruciating detail. As it was, I wheezed and tried to replace the air I'd knocked out of my lungs.

"Stop!" the creature shouted.

I considered complying for perhaps a tenth of a second, and then ducked into a lingerie store. Women in designer clothes stared at me curiously as I ran, clutching their leather purses to their chests.

They had a lot more to worry about a few seconds later. A certain pink-haired female plowed through the mannikins at the front of the store, incidentally decapitating a particularly well-endowed statue. I probably imagined the look of grim satisfaction on her face afterwards; I wasn't thinking clearly at the time.

The exit beckoned. It was only a few dozen yards away. As I vaulted over metal clothing racks, I chanced a look over my shoulder. My pursuer kicked a rack aside. It crashed into the wall, bent inward.

Almost there. Just a few more steps...

"Ha!" I said. "Better luck next ti-OOOF!"

If I'd been a normal human, the high-speed mannikin might have caused rather serious damage when it collided with my legs. As it was, I found myself staring at the ceiling with a few more bruises and ringing in my ears. Above my head, a cardboard Playtex cut-out grinned vapidly downward.

The view was cut off seconds later when a vision of pink-haired fury blocked it out. The creature took her hands off her hips long enough to gesture at the devastation. She huffed.

"Just look what you made me do!" she said.

"Maybe if you...ouch."

I winced and rubbed my head. Oddly enough, her eyes widened at that. Her hand covered her mouth.

"Did I...um...you're OK, right?"

I croaked something vaguely hostile. She bit the knuckle of her glove. Her breaths had quickened again, and her face was red. I started to worry that she might be hyperventilating.

Her odd inquiry after my welfare notwithstanding, it occurred to me that this creature could easily end my life right now if she wanted. I felt a sudden coldness in my stomach that normally came before one of my father's exams. I'd face death like an El-Melloi, of course. Perhaps I should have been a little more polite...

The creature leaned in at blinding speed. She was too fast for me to shield my face. I tried, though, and ended up wrapping my arms around her shoulders instead.

Her lips met mine. More than that, her tongue started excavating my throat. The whole affair was very warm, sloppy, and distracting enough that it almost took my attention away from the pair of luminescent wings that had sprouted from her back.

Almost.

"What the-gurkphfphf?"

Her apparent desire to suck my soul out through my mouth silenced further questions.

* * *

The unsolicited dental exam continued until the creature's handlers arrived and gently pulled her off. The explanation that followed strained my credulity ever so slightly.

The creature's name, it seemed, was Benitsubasa. She was a Sekirei - a species of alien under MBI Corp.'s protection. When a Sekirei met a compatible human, she "reacted", a process that included the odd symptoms I'd noticed earlier.

As for the mating ritual itself, it apparently consisted of orally violating the target (called an "Ashikabi") and then clinging to the poor fellow for the rest of his life.

Oh, and all 108 Sekirei were involved in a super-secret battle royale for a vague-but-important prize. Their Ashikabi would participate too, naturally.

"Say again?" I said.

The creature sighed. She'd calmed down from a few moments ago, although her blush hadn't dimmed. She seemed to be avoiding eye contact for some reason.

"There are 108 Sekirei, and-"

"No, I mean about the super-secret battle royale," I said. "And the bit about your Ashikabi participating."

Still taking care not to meet my eyes, she twiddled her thumbs across the pink gloves.

"Well, I _know_ it's sudden, but I'm perfectly capable of protecting..."

I tuned the creature - Benitsubasa - out for a while. A _tournament_! A cheap knock-off of Heaven's Feel, complete with Masters and their superhuman Servants. I considered the risks and rewards, thusly:

RISKS: If I wasn't discreet, these MBI people might find out about magic. I was pretty sure that I could fiddle with a couple memories here and there, but the organization might be a problem collectively. I would have to be careful.

REWARDS: Whatever vaguely defined prize waited at the end of the tunnel just might be worth it. Even if I only ended up with a single Sekirei at the end, that would give me an entirely new species to bring back to the Clock Tower for research. Who knew how useful these "Sekirei" might be? And if we could make them familiars...

If I'd been honest with myself, I would have added another "Reward" to the list. _This_ was what my father had done. A secret tournament. Danger. Excitement. And best of all, a chance to prove myself to the only two people who'd never given me their respect on a silver platter, even though they'd given me their names and bloodlines. To prove that I wasn't a let-down to the El-Melloi lineage. That I wasn't a failure.

...Not that I was particularly honest with myself at twenty.

Benitsubasa was staring at me. Probably because she was expecting a response of some sort. Well, if this was going to be a Master and Servant relationship like Heaven's Feel, I'd best start acting the part. I cleared my throat.

"So what are your talents, again?"

Her eyes narrowed, and the expectant look collapsed into a frown.

"Fighting," she said. "I told you that already. Three times."

I shrugged.

"I figured I'd just let you drone on for a while and ask again later. Think of it as a rehearsal."

This very sensible point did not seem to mollify her.

"I just had to go shopping _today_, didn't I?" she muttered. "Couldn't have stayed with the rest of the Disciplinary Squad, could I? Oh, no...We had good benefits, too. Catered meals! A nice, caring,_ handsome_ Ashikabi ready to wing us...I mean, sure he was a little sexually confused, but with time..."

"If you're finished, I'd like to discuss our strategy for the upcoming tournament," I said.

The creature looked down her nose at me despite the height difference, and sniffed. Her eyes drifted to my chest.

"Is that a tea stain on your suit?" she said.


	2. Chapter 2

We walked and fried in the summer afternoon. Well, I fried, at any rate. The air above the sidewalk undulated with heat haze. Friction from my sweat-soaked suit (and so recently after dry-cleaning it, too) did not improve my mood - not that I intended to change into something cooler.

We'd cleared up the remaining questions in the course of our journey.

Before she'd roped me into this, Benitsubasa had been scheduled to act as a member of the "Disciplinary Squad" - a group of three Sekirei responsible for enforcing the tournament's rules. A bit like referees, except with bladed fingers and katanas. Their Ashikabi of choice had been suave, sophisticated, and apparently gay, though Benitsubasa assured me that this was merely confusion on his part and would soon pass.

I found myself wondering who her replacement would be.

Benitsubasa's scantier attire must have channeled the heat rather better, since she kept an irritating spring in her step. Just as well, since she was carrying most of my luggage as well as her own. I ignored the evil eye that she occasionally shot from behind the mountain of Samsonite bags.

I'm told that searching for housing in Shin Tokyo is normally an exercise in frustration. Even with Benitsubasa's unlimited credit card from MBI, I still needed a relatively isolated place where I could set up my workshop without interference. This narrowed our options considerably.

Fortunately, mental interference spells can be quite persuasive to reluctant buyers.

The house in question lay on the city's outskirts. It had character, for want of a better word.

The front exterior wall was made of paper, which concerned me slightly, but the rest - the porch, the side walls, the carved filigree, the exterior slats on the second floor - all seemed to be wooden. Its previous owners had painted the roof above the porch a rather attractive sea green, though I didn't care as much for the purplish-brown second-floor roof. A hexagonal tower poked out from the building's right side. Not large enough for a workshop, but useful for extra storage space. Someone had even helpfully placed a crescent moon-shaped weather vane on its tip.

The place smelled of mildew, weatherbeaten wood, and rust. Humble enough, but it had a history, and isolation on its side. I wasn't about to repeat my father's mistake of booking twenty-odd floors of a luxury hotel. That would have practically invited attackers.

Besides, it was near a leyline.

"It's perfect."

"If Merlin died and reincarnated as a guy from Kansai, he still wouldn't live here," Benitsubasa muttered.

"Your quaint Japanese in-joke flies completely over my head."

"Think Appalachia."

I rolled my eyes and ascended the steps. The wood creaked, though not as loudly as the door's hinges did. Naturally, Benitsubasa continued to nitpick about 'structural integrity' and similar irrelevancies.

"So where's our bedroom in this dump?" she said.

"Sorry...for a moment there, I thought you said 'our' bedroom."

If anything, her glare intensified.

At first, I assumed Benitsubasa was worried that I intended to give her the smaller bedroom. This hypothesis foundered, however, when my decision to nail a 'Benitsubasa' nameplate to the entrance of the larger room only seemed to produce further resentment.

There's no pleasing some people.

We unpacked in silence. Well, she did, at any rate. I just wasn't feeling talkative. A valiant attempt to remove Benitsubasa's cinder blocks, punching mitts, and throw pillows from the living room ended in failure.

Conversely...

"Don't touch that bag!" I said.

Her head jerked up, eyes narrow.

"It's...um...equipment," I said. "Important equipment you don't need to know anything about except that it's important."

She made a show of shrugging and went back to her work. I thought I could hear teeth grinding, though.

As I picked up my bag and started up the steps, a thought occurred to me. Benitsubasa had mentioned an effect called a 'Norito'. A Sekirei's abilities apparently improved when her Ashikabi kissed her.

I admit that I hadn't paid much attention to the flow of od when she'd "winged" herself. This 'Norito' might provide a second chance to explore the mechanism. Did it absorb od from the Ashikabi? Ambient mana from the surrounding area? Was it like a _geis_ contract?

"Er, Benitsubasa..."

She looked up from her luggage. In the blink of an eye, a pair of lacy black panties that she'd been inspecting disappeared back into her bag. I noted, however, that she still wasn't speaking to me.

Honestly, did she expect me to give her _both_ bedrooms _and_ sleep on the couch? My generosity had limits.

"A little later tonight, I want to experiment with your Norito. I assume that this would be agreeable?"

Her face reddened again until it matched her hair, and I worried for a moment that she was going to have another temper tantrum. But no...instead, she looked away and chewed her fingernail. Which didn't strike me as very sanitary.

"I...um...yeah, I guess..." she said. "I mean, if you _insist_ then I suppose I could. For combat practice and all..."

I raised an eyebrow. Well, _obviously_ for combat practice. I wasn't in the habit of exchanging saliva with biological weapons recreationally.

"Good," I said.

I paused for a moment. There was something else...

"I never mentioned my name, did I?" I said.

Benitsubasa's eyes widened. The effect resembled one of those doe-eyed, saccharine-sweet characters in the nonsense her people produced. She shook her head, her finger still in her mouth.

"It's Meriwether. Meriwether Archibald El-Melloi. And yes, it _is_ technically a male name."

"O-okay..."

"I'll see you later, then."

Her pink hair bobbed as she nodded. I continued up the steps and headed for my room.

* * *

My own unpacking was rather more productive.

The books came first. Scholarly journals from the Clock Tower took pride of place, along with forty leatherbound red volumes that included Bulfinch's Mythology, the Almagest, and Dee's analysis of alchemical symbols.

I also noted that a copy of _Pygmalion_ had somehow sneaked its way into my satchel - presumably from Benitsubasa's collection, though why she'd developed a taste for second-rate Irish Edwardian playwrights (Nobel Prize in Literature my eye...) I'm sure I don't know. Cheap paperback, too. I tossed it in the wastebin.

With my library watching me reassuringly from its shelves, I hammered my brain to remember every tactical trick my father had mentioned from Heaven's Feel.

First off, I needed to set up a bounded field to disguise the building and provide an alarm system. I was no bounded field expert, but I could create a passable one.

Ordering a daily newspaper to keep an eye on the city's activities would be difficult. It might have raised questions if I asked for delivery to an invisible house. Not to mention the field's alarm going off every time an unrecognized paperboy wandered through.

On the other hand, the classifieds alone might be helpful in acquiring whatever odd knicknacks I needed...

I poked my head out the door. A scent reminiscent of Italian cooking wafted into my room.

_Hmm..._

"Benitsubasa?"

"Yes?"

"Are there any nearby post office boxes where I could get a newspaper delivered?"

"Why not just check the internet editions?"

"Internet what?"

She tilted her head to one side.

"You do know what the internet is, right?" she said.

"Vaguely...so do they deliver this newspaper thing by 'virtual mail', or 'v-mail', or whatever it's called?"

The open-mouthed look she gave me suggested that I'd breached some critical social protocol.

"Er...never mind, then. Carry on, Benitsubasa."

Her expression did not change. I shrugged and closed the door. I pondered for a moment whether my father's information-gathering advice might have become dated since the 90s, but dismissed the possibility as unlikely.

First thing the next morning, I intended to acquire a local city directory at a public library. People in the non-magus community, as a rule, are very considerate record-keepers: I could get my targets' names, their spouses' names, their employer information, street addresses, telephone numbers, the names of other domiciliaries...and, for that matter, who their neighbors were, which would in turn tell me a bit about the type of neighborhoods my targets inhabited.

Even if the information wasn't current, I could always wring the latest known addresses out of the local equivalents of postal clerks. Similarly, mental interference spells could provide me with any documents I needed from the local bureaucrats.

Did Japan have an equivalent to an auto tag department at the county courthouse? If so, perhaps I could get that information as well. And maps. Lots of maps. With push pins. Oh, and a book on the Japanese law enforcement system might come in rather handy. Just in case.

I unlatched the (real) gold clasps on my attache case with a click. Stray ice cubes spilled out and slid across the floor. Four dead pigeons lay nestled in the ice, wrapped in tissue paper. I snapped on a pair of surgical gloves, unwrapped the birds, and checked for damage. None. Good.

I stuck my head out the door again.

"Hey, Benitsubasa?"

"What?"

"Out of curiosity, do you happen to know about any graveyards near here?"

"Why would you-"

"...Preferably containing very recently dead people? As in, a day or two dead, maximum?"

"WHAT?"

"It's a simple question."

I didn't receive a satisfactory answer.

No matter. As soon as I found a graveyard, I could splice the necessary bits of departed souls into the pigeons' bodies to produce familiars. They would be my eyes and ears for the upcoming tournament. Shared perception would make them even more effective.

Come to think of it, I could always use a few more bodies for familiars...

"Oh, and Benitsubasa?"

"Yeah? How else do you want to undermine my faith in the future of our relationship?"

"Do you know of any pet shops with inconspicuous birds?"

"_Inconspicuous_ birds?"

"Just curious," I said.

"I wonder if the Disciplinary Squad would still take me back. It's really not too late...It can't be too late..._Please_ let it not be too late..."

I closed the door and returned to my equipment inventory.

I might still need a flashlight, and perhaps I could use fluid manipulation to create a mercury lockpick - a cheap imitation of the idea behind my father's Volumen Hydragyrum. Or just blast the door down.

Not that I planned to go into the field regularly myself. That was my quasi-Servant's job.

As for my own protection, I was pretty sure that my coat could stop anything short of a large-caliber bullet. It was too conspicuous for daytime work once people found out who I was, but if I did go out on my own, I'd probably do so at night anyway. My reinforced eyesight would count for more then.

In daytime, I'd just use my father's invisibility spells. Benitsubasa had assured me that Sekirei couldn't see infrared, so I doubted they'd see through it.

It was a shame I'd never learned the _Gandr_ curse. Poisons, on the other hand...

I unlatched a second suitcase. Glass phials and a bunsen burner glistened from within their purple felt wrappings. Dull, knobbly gray balls rattled inside one jar. A greenish-gold sludge seethed in another, already boiling at room temperature. If you looked closely, you could see small faces in the bubbles.

I uncorked the bottle just long enough to listen to the substance spit out angry hissing noises. Still fresh. Marvelous. I replaced the stopper.

My father had mentioned once how a Master in the Heaven's Feel ritual had tracked his opponents by examining traces of discharged prana in the water system. Simple alchemy, but effective. If Sekirei used the same power source that a magus would, then I could do something similar here. Somebody needed to collect it for me, but again, that's what mind control's for.

I pulled out the _geis_ contract forms next-to-last. Most of them were standard, but I had a couple blanks for customization as well. Unbreakable if worded correctly, and thus very useful indeed.

Finally, I unzipped the bag with my record player and classical music records. I plugged it in and sank into a rather cushy chair. My muscles relaxed in anticipation...

...and more anticipation...

Ten minutes of wrestling with the foreign power outlet and adapter left me with a burning hatred of all things Japanese, but no music.

I laid back and surveyed the rest of the room. It was cramped, like most things in this rotten country, and its bare white walls contrasted with the black mountain of bags I'd laid against them. A single overhead light (also white) illuminated the room, though not very well.

My own additions had only marginally livened the place up. Kircher's parchment map of the cosmos hung on the far wall. Above my bed, I'd suspended my glass-covered copy of Bacon's recipe for the Philosopher's Egg.

"Not genuine, they said," I muttered. "Pah! What do palaeography experts know, anyway?"

The floor was covered with what appeared to be reed mats. In a flight of atypical whimsy, I wondered if these people allowed their food, animals, and children to dirty their floors until they simply replaced the reeds - like the Elizabethan English - but ultimately concluded that it was unlikely. Besides, they had robot maids for that sort of thing.

On the other hand, these were the same people who hadn't grasped the SIMPLE concept that their power outlets needed to be WESTERN.

* * *

The scent of Italian cooking I'd detected earlier interrupted my thoughts. It had almost filled up the room by now. My curiosity aroused, I descended the stairs and headed for the dining room. Or at least what looked like the dining room. I hadn't acquired a table yet, and the previous owners hadn't left one.

Benitsubasa had evidently arranged our dinner on the floor, since it sat on a white sheet in the middle of the room. Steam rose from the dishes, and I inhaled. I smelled the slight tang of spicy tomato sauce on the cannelloni, the garlic in the toasted bread, the bite of vinegar in the salad. Mixed with this was the aroma of at-least-passable wine. The two candles - a potential fire hazard, I noted absently - cast shadows across the sheet's folds and made the silverware glimmer.

In the background, I heard strains of slow saxophone music. This puzzled me, since I hadn't seen Benitsubasa bring her own record player along.

The Sekirei looked at me with an expression that almost seemed...expectant?

"Italian food?" I said.

And again, Benitsubasa seemed to be avoiding eye contact for some reason. She pushed her forefingers together and nodded.

"Um...we didn't cook much Western food, but I knew how to make this. I figured Italian would be Western enough...Uh, not that I made it as a special dish or anything! I was just hungry. So, you know. I figured I'd invite you, too."

Normally, I don't care much for Italian food, but I was feeling generous that night. I'd let it slide.

When I sat down, she smiled slightly and sat across from me. I prodded the cannelloni with a fork that she had provided. The white ricotta cheese seemed roughly the right consistency.

"About time," I said.

For some reason, Benitsubasa's smile dropped.

"Excuse me?"

"At first, I worried that your constant whining was a hint of things to come, but it seems that you understand your proper place in this arrangement after all-"

"My _PLACE_?"

I blinked.

"Well, yes," I said. "As the non-human party, not to mention the 'brawn' side of our 'brains and brawn' equation, it's obvious that you'll be taking a subordinate role. A bit like a familiar, actually. And it's good to see that you've taken that role seriously. Of course, I would have preferred that you fix dinner a bit sooner...Oh, and the house still needs cleaning-"

I reinforced my head just before she cracked the dinner plate over it.

Cheese, sauce, pesto, and other assorted goo dripped onto my much-abused (and recently dry cleaned) suit. Again. I wiped off some of the sauce and sniffed.

"Also, your cooking needs more garlic," I said.

While I did not appreciate the garlic-bread-to-the-face that followed, I had to give her credit for a sense of irony.


	3. Chapter 3

I sat on the floor of the house's tower, surrounded by windows. I could hear water run through the pipes, and blood flowing in my ears. Otherwise, nothing. Motes of dust caught the evening sun. Each fluttered for awhile, and then alighted on the ground.

A perfect chamber to enter my familiars' consciousness without interruption. The door was locked, naturally.

I'd spoken on Benitsubasa's phone with the game master: a white-suited, white-haired man in a cape named Minaka. The conversation had not filled me with confidence. One statement, in particular, had stuck with me. For some perverse reason or other, I imagined it as a poorly organized group of non-rhyming stanzas:

_They will fight, and fight, and fight until one is left._

_And then, when everything is finished,_

_Sekirei and Ashikabi will ascend together, to decide the fate of the world._

But what was ascension?

In any event, the combined contributions of my bird familiars, alchemical water analysis, and the city directory had given me a good picture of my enemies. I'd initially worried about seven or more major opponents, like the free-for-all in Heaven's Feel. Instead, most of the Sekirei had congregated at four poles:

(1) Minato Sahashi. About my age. He lived in the northern part of the city, in an inn owned by a purple-haired landlady whose prana supply felt more like a Heroic Spirit's than a regular human's. My familiar had counted at least two Sekirei before a cold aura had engulfed it. I'd withdrawn my consciousness just before its heart stopped.

(2) Hayato Mikogami. Fifteen years old, an industrialist's son. He had at least six Sekirei in his miniature villa in the city's southern quarter.

(3) Izumi Higa, or Higa Izumi, or however that Japanese name-reversal thing works. A businessman. He'd surrounded himself with at least eleven Sekirei. From his compound, he controlled most of the city's eastern portion.

(4) Nishi Sanada. A thug with a taste for motorcycles, baseball bats, and dressing his Sekirei in perverted outfits. He owned at least three Sekirei, which helped him indulge in the latter hobby. He'd set up shop in the western district. Unfortunately for him, so had I.

A large, red pin marked each of the locations on my map.

A host of smaller pins marked the minor Ashikabi I'd already located: Takano Kouji, Himura Youichi, Junichi Tanigawa, and a few others.

And now for a little experiment.

* * *

Junichi Tanigawa lived in an apartment near the border of northern Shin Tokyo.

Nothing distinguished his apartment from its neighbors except its position in the grid. It had the same concrete shelf as a patio, and the same gray railing around that patio. An identical white boxy air conditioner kept it cool.

Once you got past the real estate, though, Junichi Tanaka was a bit more unusual. He favored a turquoise windbreaker, carried a knife, and seemed to enjoy belting his Sekirei in the face.

All things considered, he should have counted his blessings: this wasn't the _real_ Heaven's Feel. While Lancer, my father's servant, just might have been self-effacing enough to refrain from gutting Tanigawa, I doubted that Archer or Rider would have shared his restraint.

...And Caster...

I suppressed a shudder.

In any event, it seemed that Tanigawa was a bit of a loner. He worked as a handyman of sorts, but must have had the gift of gab, since he fenced televisions on the side. Whenever he wasn't working - which was often - he tended to drink, watch television, indulge in meretricious relations with his Sekirei, or some combination thereof.

I concluded from his knife that he had a paranoid streak. His lifestyle, however, suggested that he wasn't in good condition.

This setup might not have seemed promising at first. I couldn't just walk into his apartment without triggering retaliation from his Sekirei, who carried a seven foot tall mallet. Also, he had a burglar alarm. So that was out.

...But he walked to his job. In the evenings, he returned home across a quiet park.

I doubted that this arrangement would last long. Sooner or later, he would realize that his Sekirei's MBI credit card meant that he didn't have to work at all (except for fencing televisions, which he appeared to enjoy). I needed to act quickly.

And thus, I found myself sitting in the middle of an invisibility spell, in the middle of a courtyard, in the middle of a deserted park. Cicadas whined. Telephone poles cast shadows over the orange pavement. They criscrossed the gray lines of tiles that divided the pavement into squares.

Stone steps lead down into the courtyard, and on either side of those steps were patches of grass that sloped downward. Their blades swayed with the wind.

_Clip._

_Clop._

_Clip._

I looked up from my _Almagest_. A slender shadow zigzagged down the steps. I followed its contours upward until I saw my target. Alone.

_You're mine._

I spread my invisibility spell until it covered him. He blinked. His eyes bugged out, and his body tensed. I suppose it must have seemed as if I'd appeared out of nowhere.

"What the-?"

"Good evening, Mr. Junichi," I said. "My...friends have been following you for a while. Bats at night. Birds in daylight. Flies during your office hours - you squashed one once. I might repay you for that if you're not careful."

The knife came out. And then, he furrowed his brows.

"Uh...it's Tanigawa," he said.

"Pardon?"

"You said 'Mr. Junichi'. That's my _first_ name, jackass."

I jabbed my forefinger at him.

"Don't get testy with _me_, Junichi...er...Tamag-whatever your name is. It's not my fault your people confuse the proper positions for a first and last-"

"Are you gonna explain why you're here, or am I gonna have to stab you?"

I ran through my intimidation speech again - which had sounded much better in my head, incidentally - and decided it would be best to start over.

"Well, as I mentioned before, I've been following you for a while, Mr..."

"Tanigawa."

"Right. And I couldn't help but notice that you and I have a similar problem."

He snorted.

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

I permitted myself a smirk.

"Sanada Nishi," I said.

A perplexed expression crossed his face.

"Er...wait," I said. "I meant, 'Nishi Sanada'. Or...hang on...does that sound more last-name-ish? Or perhaps - Oh, screw it."

I cast a suggestion spell on him and resolved to figure the rest out later.

* * *

That evening, I found myself crouching in the bushes outside another building. It wasn't a bad night for a stroll, actually; the air was fresh and rather invigorating. At least, that's what I'd told Benitsubasa before I headed out. With luck, she'd was already asleep.

It had taken me a while to craft the invisibility illusion in which I now sat. Almost an hour, in fact. I hoped that it would be worth it.

Nishi Sanada, the so-called Ashikabi of the West, did not leave his home unaccompanied unless he could help it. This complicated my plans.

Mr. Tanigawa would re-simplify them for me.

Commands given through mental interference spells do not enslave their victims completely. Strong-willed or not, most people will not obey commands that violate their basic natures. You must nudge rather than push.

It hadn't taken much nudging to send Tanigawa on an attack mission.

My reinforced eyes could still make out Tanigawa's turquoise windbreaker in the dark. More importantly, I heard the gravel grind as his Sekirei dragged her cartoonishly large hammer.

Yashima, I think he'd called her.

She walked hunched over, eyes on the ground. Her skimpy white-and-blue sailor dress (it looked vaguely nautical, at any rate) didn't blend with the darkness very well, although her black stockings and opera gloves hid her appendages somewhat better. She flinched whenever Tanigawa looked at her. Which wasn't often.

Sanada had been wise enough to live on the building's ground floor. My new pet idiot rang the doorbell.

Waited ten seconds.

Rang again.

"_Uh...coming,_" said a female voice.

They'd be ready for him. They must have sensed his approach, and the decision to stand there and _ring the doorbell_ had probably clinched it. I chuckled softly.

The door opened. It revealed three Sekirei and a guy with a baseball bat, open leather jacket, and no shirt underneath. He hardly had any body fat. I assume this is why he chose to parade his bare chest and stomach at his visitors.

A neon green halo flared around Yashima's hammer. Tanigawa's knife flicked out. The man at the door gave a lopsided smile.

"Yo."

Yashima swung her hammer. The entryway exploded. Wood splinters and concrete chips flew everywhere. A dark-skinned, blonde Sekirei with stars painted on her bra (Yes, I _am _serious) pushed Sanada out of the way. This was fortunate. A moment later, the hammer blasted his previous location into powder.

The two more mature-looking Sekirei in Sanada's harem flurried punches, kicks, and elbows. Yashima retreated. They followed. Even the youngest - a short-haired little sprite with rosy cheeks and an annoying voice - drifted into the maelstrom. Further and further away from their Ashikabi.

I darted from the bushes on reinforced legs. Sanada's eyes were still on the battle.

"Hey, you three! Whaddya think you're doing, pushing me away from the figh-Umph!"

My shoulder caught him just beneath the armpit. He tumbled backward in a heap.

"A point of etiquette, Mr. Sanada," I said. "Battles between Servants are best left to Servants..."

I grinned.

"...and Masters fight Masters."

Sanada's jaw tensed. He lunged back up and swung his bat. I blocked it on my forearm. His eyes widened when he heard a loud _ping_ instead of the sound of breaking bone.

When you don't know much about hand-to-hand combat (and I don't), cheating helps.

I swatted the bat from his hands and kicked Sanada in the chest. He crashed into the exterior wall. I doubted he'd be getting up as quickly this time. I stole a glance at the battle. Still going. Yashima had taken to her delaying role rather well.

I took a handful of Sanada's jacket and yanked him up. I heard a _click_. Odd...

"What was-" I began.

I looked down and realized that if I hadn't been wearing my father's old suit/robe, Sanada would have already jammed a switchblade into my guts.

"Now _that_ was a poor choice."

I grabbed his hand and squeezed until I heard a pop or two. He dropped the knife. Didn't cry out, though. I pulled us both behind some cover after I took a quick look at the battle.

Yashima was...yes, still fighting.

I slammed Sanada against the wall and looked him in the eyes.

"And now, Mr. Sanada, I have a proposition for you..."

* * *

Tampering with Sanada's mind didn't take very long. Admittedly, I _might _have managed the trick just by showing up at his house and striking up a "conversation", but I hadn't wanted to take the chance that Sekirei could detect prana activity.

Perhaps I also have a taste for the theatrical.

Speaking of street theatre, Sanada's Sekirei had finally backed Yashima into a corner. She swung her hammer more slowly now. My eyes could almost follow what had previously been green blurs. Sanada's two older-looking Sekirei (both fighter types, by the looks of them) darted in and out. Their attacks alternated with Yashima's. Dash - dodge - dash.

Every time the hammer missed, Yashima received another bruise. Tanigawa screamed obscenities from the sidelines. He'd lost his knife earlier. One of Sanada's Sekirei had kicked it from his hand. That hand now hung limp.

Yashima took a kick to her knee. I heard a crack and a whimper. In an instant, punches to the neck and temple streamed in and crumpled her. Her attacker bent down and touched a black symbol on the back of Yashima's neck. The spot began glowing.

"Consider it a gift, sister. I free you now from your misery."

Yashima went completely limp.

And then, Tanigawa graciously decided to contribute by omission to humanity's gene pool. He growled, switched his knife to his left hand, and lunged at the perpetrator.

"You little-!"

Whatever pearl of wisdom Tanigawa had been husbanding for that moment, he never brought it to the light of day. His target sent him flying with a flick of her wrist.

* * *

By this time, of course, I had already retreated to the safety of my invisibility illusion. Sanada would wake up in a little while without so much as a sprained wrist. My healing spells had been thorough. He would doubtless conclude that he'd passed out from the excitement. Or whatever idiots conclude when they find themselves lying in the grass after a battle. I didn't particularly care.

The mental interference command would hold. My tracks had been covered.

Those were the important parts.

"Okay, that's _IT_! I want to know what's going on _RIGHT NOW_!"

Could I avoid turning around? Pretend the voice was a figment of my imagination? Ignore it and hope that it would go away?

Ultimately, I sighed and faced the inevitable.

There was Benitsubasa, standing in fluffy slippers and a pink bathrobe. She had neglected to tie it closed adequately. Her white undergarments were clearly visible. The display struck me as indecent, but I had a larger issue to worry about.

She must have followed my trail and hidden nearby while I set up the invisibility spell. But why would she follow...?

"Oh...er, hello there, Benitsubasa. Fine night, isn't it?"

Without another word, she handed me a piece of parchment. I looked at the writing and realized that she'd rummaged through my files behind my back.

She must have broken into my room when I left. As if the _locked door_ hadn't been enough of a message.

Of all the obnoxious-

She tapped the parchment. It was one of Father's older letters.

* * *

_To His Son Meriwether, Residing In The Clock Tower, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, Sends Greetings With Paternal Zeal:_

_It is written 'ex nihilo nihil fit', not to mention 'laborare est orare'. _

_I have recently discovered - not from your professor at the Clock Tower, although he ought not to hide such things from me, but from a certain reliable source - that you have been living dissolutely and slothfully. _

_You only study twelve hours per day. Your grades loiter disgracefully in second place, hovering near third. At least one other student excels you in fluid manipulation spells. Your invisibility spells, while passably excellent, lack the attention to detail, durability, and portability of those created by your fellow students merely three or four years your senior._

_ Doubtless you play a lute in your spare time, or something equally impertinent. _

_I am naturally ashamed of you. Your mother daily bemoans the questionable parenting decisions that have produced a wastrel. Wherefore I have decided to exhort you herewith to repent utterly of your dissolute and careless ways, that you may no longer be a weed growing from the root of the El-Melloi line, and your shame may be turned to good repute._

_- Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society_

* * *

(For the record, I do not play the lute).

"Er...What's your point?" I tried.

Benitsubasa's eye twitched.

"Just how stupid do you think I am?"

Rather than answer her question honestly, I tried another tack.

"It's all...metaphorical. My university's just - er - old-fashioned," I said.

Her eye twitch had become even more pronounced.

"I saw you block a baseball bat with your _arm_," she said.

"Um...metal joint replacement?"

"You kicked that guy ten feet into a wall."

"Weightlifting."

"Oh yeah? Then what's a bench press?"

I rubbed my chin and tried to remember the two physical education classes I hadn't skipped to study alchemy.

"It's...um...er...all very technical..."

Benitsubasa ran her fingers through her hair as if she was going to rip it out by the roots. She made a great show of sighing, and then spread her arms, gesturing around us.

"WE'RE STANDING IN AN INVISIBILITY FIELD!" she shrieked.

"...Well, I admit it _does _seem a tad suspicious at first blush-"

"…THAT YOU MADE!"

I debated at this point whether I should protest that invisibility fields didn't exist. Ultimately, I doubted that this would accomplish its intended purpose. I hammered my brains for something else.

"Er...it's a funny story, actually-"

"Stop."

Her reply had been so quiet that I barely heard her.

"Excuse me?"

"You lock yourself in your room for days on end," she said. "You spend more time in graveyards than at home. You only talk to me about tactics. And even then, you don't talk much."

"Well isn't that-"

She glared at me. For some reason, I decided to stop talking.

"...And did I ask questions?" she said. "Nope. Not my place. You're my Ashikabi. Okay, so you hang out in morgues and freeze petshop birds in ice chests. No biggie. A little unhealthy, maybe, but I can live with that..."

Her voice had trailed off to a whisper, and she seemed to be inspecting her feet very carefully. She fiddled with her fingers. It was all very unprofessional.

"...Which was fine at first," she said. "I mean, I was looking forward to the Sekirei Plan. I figured you were being nice when you kept asking about tactical stuff. Y'know, going along with me and all. I knew you weren't...well, like Natsuo. I thought maybe you'd warm up. But - but it's been weeks, you barely _look_ at me, and..."

A pause followed. She looked up and took a deep breath.

"...and now I'm asking questions," she finished.

For a while, we stared at each other. Benitsubasa just stood there in her slippers, with her hands on her hips, shivering in the night air. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. I wondered if a bit of dust had gotten into them, or a gnat, or something of that sort. The gesture made me uncomfortable, somehow.

I cleared my throat.

"It occurs to me that I need to clean Sanada's bloodstains off my coat," I said.

Her face fell. She gripped the side of her bathrobe and closed her eyes.

"And...er...you look cold," I said. "So you might as well wear it. The coat, I mean. Normally I wouldn't bother, but it's stained anyway, and I need you alert if you're going to listen to my...er...explanation."

Benitsubasa blinked. Slowly, her neck craned upward to look at me again. When I offered her the coat, she put it on gingerly, as if she thought it was going to bite her. The sleeves reached several inches past her fingertips. The robe portion trailed on the ground.

"You-you're going to explain?" she said.

I clasped my hands behind my back and coughed, preparing my best lecturing voice.

"First thing's first," I said. "If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, a group of people who kill vampires for fun are going to hunt you down."

"You're joking," she said.

"Do you want my explanation or not?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Seriously?" she said. "Vampires? That's the best you can come up with? And you expect me to..."

I stared at her.

"...O-kay...you're _not_ joking. Wow. I've just veered into moonbat territory, haven't I?"

And with that cheery prelude, we began our journey home.


	4. Chapter 4

For as long as I'd known them, my parents disliked hospitals. Indeed, in one of her rare bits of mother-to-son advice, Lady El-Melloi had grabbed my shoulders and told me the following:

_If you're ever seriously injured near a hospital, don't let them sedate you. Do you hear me, Meriwether? Don't. _

Looking back on it now, this might have contributed to my childhood fear of nurses.

At first glance, I had to admit that this _particular _hospital's entrance area resembled a park more than an opium den. The courtyard was rather quiet. A bird chirped here and there. Clipped hedges bordering the sidewalks provided passageways for the wind to carry the smell of mowed grass.

Even in midday, the trees shaded us. Their branches hung over the white picket fence around the periphery. When taken as a whole, the gardeners had created the illusion of a separate little world. An arboreal reality marble.

In my parents' defense, some other magi with healing abilities share their antipathy to hospitals. And I didn't know at the time about my father's frantic search through Fuyuki's General Hospital for the woman he would later marry.

This particular building also housed a patient whose visitor might prove dangerous.

I felt a tug at my sleeve.

"Anything wrong?" she said.

"Certainly not."

Benitsubasa rolled her eyes and tugged again, more insistently.

"Then why do you look so tense?" she said.

"Why have _you_ become so grabby of late?"

She scowled and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest.

"We _are_ technically mated, y'know," she said.

Ah, yes. That again.

The incident with Yashima and her Ashikabi had impressed upon me just how vulnerable these Sekirei were. If her Ashikabi died, a Sekirei deactivated. If her Ashikabi chose to hit her, MBI's medical "adjustments" reduced a Sekirei's ability to retaliate. Not to mention that a Sekirei's compulsion to protect her Ashikabi rose to the level of a mental disability.

Worse, once somebody "winged" her, a Sekirei could only reproduce with that person. It was a major vulnerability for a species with only 108 members.

...So I suppose I could understand why Sekirei claimed to "love" their Ashikabis. Nonsense, of course: any magus worth his salt could see through the deception in an instant. But if a Sekirei's _Ashikabi _believed it, he might be inclined to treat his Sekirei better. And perhaps copulate with her frequently enough to perpetuate the species.

In my case, this was unnecessary. Benitsubasa had already proved an invaluable ally in the Sekirei Plan (albeit an uncooperative housemaid). More than that, she would provide useful data for my research once the Plan concluded. If she was _that_ concerned about her species' reproductive future, I would be more than happy to use her DNA for cloning experiments.

For some reason, I'd also developed a certain...tolerance for the creature. Hardly the attitude for a dispassionate researcher, but there it was. I'd long ago abandoned my plans for dissection, for instance.

At first, I had tried to convey to Benitsubasa just how unnecessary her charade was. My explanation only seemed to annoy her - a reaction I attributed to her distrust of me in general. I would have been similarly suspicious in her position.

...Or maybe she was using her professed "love" as an excuse to keep a closer eye on me? After my revelations about magecraft had worn off, Benitsubasa had given me a long lecture about going out without her. Again, though, I didn't blame her. If I died, she deactivated.

And so, whatever the reason, the romantic had nonsense continued.

On the bright side, Benitsubasa had surprised me. I'd worried initially that she would break down once I revealed the existence of magecraft. She _had_ been rather quiet at first. Before long, though, she'd started asking questions. I'd soon learned that I only needed to explain a concept once before she grasped its tactical implications.

"So your familiars tracked her here?"

Like now, for instance.

"That's correct."

"And you're _sure_ that the patient in this hospital is this Sekirei's Ashikabi?" she said. "Most Sekirei are heterosexual."

"If it's _not_ her Ashikabi, then this particular Sekirei needs a long lecture about proper versus improper touching."

Benitsubasa raised an eyebrow.

"...O-kay then. I'll take that as a yes."

We entered the double doors.

A quick bit of hypnosis convinced the nurse on duty to let us visit our targets. Note the plural. I'd chosen my time carefully; the Sekirei visited her Ashikabi on a regular schedule. Both would be there.

We arrived three flights of steps later.

* * *

I reached for the knob, and blinked when Benitsubasa's hand shot out and grabbed mine. A wave of annoyance washed over me. Her grip softened, though, and she pulled my hand away gently, positioning her body between me and the doorway.

"We've been over this," she said. "I'm going first."

I rolled my eyes, but nodded. She turned the knob.

The room was unremarkable. A turquoise couch with three rubber cushions was lodged against the right wall. A dress lay on it. The design was unusual - it looked a bit like a Swiss alpine dress, but not of the traditional sort. Imagine something worn by a sexually deviant fugitive from _Heidi_ and you might get a good approximation.

The walls themselves were a light purplish gray. When combined with the painting of almost-white-but-still-slightly-pink lilies on the wall, the color scheme gave a bleached impression. Sanitary, but lifeless. A trio of stuffed animals by the bedside - a rabbit, a penguin, and what looked like a mouse - provided the only other slice of character.

The room's occupants were another matter. The Ashikabi was thin to the point of emaciation, with hair like straw and pink pajamas. She was leaning against the bed's backboard (actually little more than a cheap metal frame). Her breaths were quick and shallow. Her eyes, already large, had widened like saucers when she saw us.

The Sekirei's face was slightly harder to make out, since she was wrapped in strips of white cloth. They twined and writhed around her like living creatures. Most of them seemed aimed (to the extent that one can 'aim' fabric) at my head.

Like most of her kind, this Sekirei also seemed unusually well-endowed, which must have been a hindrance in combat. I mention it primarily because Benitsubasa pointed out this defect to me afterwards. Repeatedly. (I admired Benitsubasa's practical outlook on the subject, but she seemed oddly passionate about it.)

"Dreary place," I said.

The Sekirei locked eyes with Benitsubasa.

"What does the Disciplinary Squad want here?" she said.

Benitsubasa grinned.

"Oh, hadn't you heard?" she said. "I'm a free agent now."

The veiled Sekirei looked me up and down, paying particular attention to my robe. I wondered if she could sense the enchantments on it.

"So is this Neo impersonator your Ashikabi?"

Benitsubasa cracked her knuckles.

"Why?" she said. "Are you looking for somebody to go Matrix on your ass? Because I'd be glad to ob-"

"Who's this 'Neo' person?" I said.

Benitsubasa's glare swung toward me.

"Meriwether, you're _not_ helping," she growled.

"Wait, wait wait...Your Ashikabi is a Matrix cosplayer named _Meriwether_?"

Realizing that the conversation was rapidly spinning out of control, I decided to change tack.

"Uzume," I said.

The Sekirei froze. Her bolts of fabric swiveled toward me again.

"You and I both know that you're not going to attack me with your Ashikabi in the bed next to you," I said. "You also know that I could have killed her at any time I wished. I still could."

"_Touch_ her and you die," the Sekirei - Uzume - hissed.

I smirked and nodded toward the girl on the bed.

"Chiho, isn't it?" I said. "How unfortunate that you have an incurable disease. I wonder who's paying your medical bills, hmm...? Must be expensive."

The girl shuddered. Uzume was shaking, though with rage or fear I wasn't sure. I cleared my throat.

"Lower your weapons, and we'll discuss my proposal like civilized people," I said.

Uzume's eyes narrowed further.

"Your proposal?" she said.

I held out my hand and _ahem_'ed. Benitsubasa did nothing. I snapped my fingers a few times. She gave me a dirty look, but didn't do anything else.

I _ahem_'ed a second time.

"Oh for the love of...The suitcase is _right in front of you_!" Benitsubasa snapped.

I _ahem_'ed a third time.

Finally, Benitsubasa sighed and opened my suitcase. She presented me with a parchment scroll, though I noted sourly that she did it without much ceremony. I unraveled it with a _fwop_ and tossed it to Uzume. She should have counted herself fortunate: I'd even written it in Japanese for the occasion.

She glanced at it, although her fabric streamers kept twitching in my direction.

_"First Party, hereafter 'Uzume' (undersigned), agrees and affirms to provide all services necessary to assist Second Party, hereafter Meriwether Archibald El-Melloi (undersigned), to win the Sekirei Plan for him, and_..."

Uzume stopped reading and looked up.

"You're joking," she said.

"Why do people _always_ say that when they hear my name?" I said. "It's not that strange. Look at a Shin Tokyo phone book sometime: Toyota! Kawasaki! Honda! You people name yourselves after _automobile companies!_"

Both Uzume and Chiho stared at me for several seconds. Benitsubasa mouthed something that looked like, 'You're on your own here.'

Uzume broke the silence.

"Uh...first off, there's so much wrong with that statement that I'm not even getting near it. Second, I was referring to the contract. Why would I give up the chance to win the Sekirei Plan and be with my Ashikabi? How _stupid_ would I have to be to-"

"I can cure her."

Uzume snorted.

"Yeah. Right. And I can double your money if you just invest in some Mouse Road all-natural detergents."

I held out my hand and chanted the appropriate Aria. Fortunately, Uzume probably didn't speak English. William McGonagall's Victorian doggerel lacked a certain _gravitas_ for intimidation purposes:

_'Twas all on a sudden the storm did arise_

_Which took the captain and passengers all by surprise_

_Because they had just sat down to their tea_

_When the ship began to roll with the heaving of the sea_

Benitsubasa winced. I made a mental note to explain later that it wasn't _my_ poetry.

Water collected from the atmosphere and swirled into a hollow sphere three feet wide. Streamers orbited in midair like a planet's rings.

_"Kewdh_. _Kewdh. Kewdh. Kewdh._

_Four times conceal."_

The tower of water vanished. I glanced at my audience. Chiho was shaking. Even under her veil, I noted that Uzume's eyes had widened. One of her fabric bolts tentatively prodded the place where the water had been. She yanked it back quickly with a gasp. Water dripped from its tip.

"It's...it's still there," she said. "We just can't see it..."

"Have I made my point?" I said. "You've probably realized by now that the scroll in your hands isn't an ordinary contract. Here's the deal: your services for Chiho's recovery. I reserve the right to block out her memories of this incident, though."

And then, for the first time in this conversation, Chiho showed a backbone. At a very inconvenient time.

"No!" Chiho shouted. "I won't allow this. I don't know who or what you are, but...But you're not getting your hands on Uzume! I won't let you get her killed! There has to be another way. There has to-"

"Do we have a deal...Uzume?"

I smiled and waited. The Sekirei's suicidal compulsion to protect her Ashikabi would do the rest of the work. It didn't take long.

Uzume's shoulders slumped.

"I'll do it," she said.

She took the pen. I heard it scratch the parchment, and felt the burst of prana as the spell took hold.

A pained noise came from Chiho. Bizarre though it sounds, she actually had tears in her eyes. And this despite the fact that I'd just offered to save her in return for a Sekirei that she didn't intend to use in combat anyway. Her hospital bills alone must have been astronomical.

But instead of the expected 'thank you', Chiho came out with the following:

"I won't let you!" she said. "If you don't heal me, you won't get Uzume's help. That's how it works, right? I'll refuse treatment."

For the second time this afternoon, I rolled my eyes.

"Uzume, if you please?"

The Sekirei in question was staring at the floor with a blank expression on her face. I snapped my fingers in front of her nose. She inhaled sharply and glared.

"What?"

"Hold her down," I said. "I don't fancy getting my fingers bitten."

Chiho's eyes had become wet and puffy by this time. It was very undignified.

"I'm sorry, Chiho," Uzume whispered.

Uzume's veils wrapped her Azhikabi's arms, legs, and head gently. Whenever Chiho struggled, the fabric tightened just enough to contain her movements. They softened immediately when the struggling stopped.

I placed my hand on Chiho's forehead and chanted the necessary Aria. I'd prepared some of the spell before I left, but the remaining details still took a few minutes to finish.

Nothing happened for a moment, and then light started to shine from the inside of Chiho's torso. She squealed. Her legs stiffened and bucked as if he was going into a spasm. Her eyes rolled back in her head. A stream of drool dripped down her chin. I kept chanting.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO-?"

Uzume's question ended unfinished. The light dimmed, flickered, and faded. Chiho sagged. Her head lolled to one side. Her gasps slowed down until I could barely hear her breathing. I quickly muttered a memory modification as a chaser.

I removed my gloves and looked around. Uzume sagged back into a chair. The veils sank around her like a shawl.

"She...she's cured, right?" she said. "I mean, that's-"

"Do you have a wastebasket?"

"Wh...what?"

I held the gloves as far away from my suit as I could.

"A _waste-bas-ket_," I repeated slowly. "I'm not in the habit of keeping articles of clothing that people have slobbered on."

Uzume's voice rose.

"Excuse me, I _asked_ you whether-"

"She's cured," I said. "Ask the ignoramuses who work here if you don't believe me. So... Wastebasket. Now."

"Find it yourself."

I mumbled something under my breath and turned to my Sekirei.

"Benitsubasa, kindly go-"

"Not a chance."

After I found the wastebasket, Benitsubasa and I waited around in another part of the hospital while the staff performed the necessary tests. Fortunately, _one _of us had thought far enough ahead to bring reading material. Not that I intended to share.

I thumbed through my pocket edition of Abelard's _Sic et Non _while Benitsubasa whined about a copy of _Pygmalion _that she _would _have remembered to bring along if it hadn't mysteriously vanished. The intricacies of Scholastic philosophy distracted me from the hospital's interminable beeps and squeaking cart wheels until Uzume finally reappeared.

"Satisfied?" I said.

She'd changed into tight jeans, sandals, and a pink shirt with a yellow star that obnoxiously highlighted her overgrown chest. She didn't seem to have considered how this lewd display reflected upon her Ashikabi, which struck me as rather inconsiderate.

I was rapidly learning that Benitsubasa's nudity taboos, while they left much to be desired, hovered nearer the 'prudish' end of her species. A fact for which I was thankful.

"She won't remember this?" Uzume said.

"I've blanked it out," I said. "The rest of her memories are intact, of course. She knows nothing about our arrangement."

"...As long as you stick to your end of the bargain," Benitsubasa added with a nasty smile.

I tapped the scroll.

"Oh, she will," I said.

As we stood up to leave, I leaned next to Uzume's ear.

"_You're mine now, Sekirei_," I whispered.

Uzume tensed as if I'd dropped a black widow down her dress.

"And he means that in a completely non-sexual way," Benitsubasa said. "Believe me."

I thought I detected a note of grumbling in her tone, but decided not to press the issue. Finally, realizing that Benitsubasa didn't intend to hold the door open for me, I sighed and opened it myself.

"Meriwether."

I turned.

"Eh?"

Uzume slapped me across the face. I had no time for reinforcement. In retrospect, I was fortunate that she'd decided _not_ to rip my head off.

The effect on Benitsubasa was immediate. I only realized that she had moved two seconds later, when I found myself lying on the grass. She'd pushed me out of the way. Uzume was smirking at her, though the effect was slightly marred by Benitsubasa holding Uzume a foot off the ground by her throat. Her voice came out as a rasp.

"You sure you want to get into this now?" Uzume said. "I dunno...it might screw with your Ashikabi's plans if you kill me. Or..._try_ to kill me."

Benitsubasa wore an expression I hadn't seen before. Her killing intent, on the other hand, I recognized immediately. _Felt _immediately. Something similar had hung like a shroud over Kiritsugu Emiya on his rare visits to our estate.

"Benitsubasa," I said.

"WHAT?"

"Let her down."

"But-"

"Am I your Ashikabi?"

"Yeah, which is exactly why I don't intend to let this pass."

An amusing thought struck me.

"Am I your mate?"

"Yeah, but you-Wait, what? Um...yeah...I guess you are..."

"Let her down."

My joke seemed to have its effect. Benitsubasa's fingers loosened. Uzume dropped.

"Do that again and I kill Chiho," Benitsubasa said.

She turned on her heel before Uzume could answer. Perhaps wisely, Uzume did not try to retaliate.

* * *

Benitsubasa and I passed through the remainder of the hospital garden in silence. I suppose the prospect of Uzume harming me - and thereby deactivating Benitsubasa - must have rattled Benitsubasa more than I'd expected.

I rubbed my cheek. It would probably bruise.

"You know, it's amusing..." I said.

"What?"

"Uzume gave up her freedom for nothing."

Benitsubasa huffed.

"Idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"She saved her Ashikabi's life."

I shrugged.

"I'm not in the habit of winning tournaments against cripples. Nor do I simply wait around while incompetents in lab coats kill my opponents for me."

Benitsubasa looked at me for an excessive amount of time.

"Wait...you would've helped Chiho anyway?" she said.

"I would have made arrangements for a worthy opponent," I said. "Nothing more."

We walked a while longer. As occasionally happened for no discernible reason, Benitsubasa seemed enthralled by the sight of her own twiddling fingers. She didn't make eye contact.

Finally, though-

"Did...did you mean what you said?"

"About what?" I said.

"About the...you know. The mating...um...thing."

I chuckled. Perhaps she did have a sense of humor after all.

"I _thought _your little in-joke about mating might snap you out of it," I said.

Benitsubasa delivered her next question through gritted teeth.

"Did you say my...in-joke?"

I cleared my throat.

"Well, yes. You know. 'Love', 'romance', and all that other rot you pretend to feel whenever you want something from me. Unnecessary, of course, as I've already explained to you a thousand times. But you keep talking about it, so I naturally _assumed_ you found it amusing-"

Benitsubasa's handprint on my uninjured cheek didn't improve my appearance much, but I suppose it gave my face a certain symmetry.


	5. Chapter 5

Hayato Mikogami, the fifteen-year-old Ashikabi of the South, was an unusual sort of person. Take, for instance, his penchant for dressing in white-and-gold 18th century knockoffs, complete with silk cravats. Or his equally questionable refusal to order his Sekirei to wear underwear. This lack of concern for a dress code, I noticed, was a common failing among Ashikabis.

Poor taste in interior decorating, though, did not figure among Mikogami's foibles.

My familiar was watching Mikogami's Sekirei as they ate in one of his residence's many lounges. The sofa and chairs were a grayish purple leather that contrasted to the carpet rather nicely. Four lacquered rectangular windows alternated with porcelain panels whose white-and-gold color scheme matched Mikogami's own clothing.

The windows themselves were remarkably clear. They consisted of a large central pane bordered by several smaller squares of glass. Sunlight reflected from mahogany table tops. Overall, it gave an impression of airy refinement. Mikogami had even resisted the temptation to plaster his walls with the sludge-on-canvas that most people call "modern art."

Through my familiar's vision, I could recognize most of the room's occupants. The Sekirei in a kimono and fingerless gloves could only be Himeko. She'd laid her double-edged blade against the wall, and picked at her caviar with chopsticks. (Which seemed rather impractical).

In the other corner, a Sekirei in twin pigtails munched on a burger consisting of blue cheese, mustard, French fries, and - if its packaging could be believed - ground Kobe beef. It was thus both expensive and nutritionally worthless. At least she had the foresight to put a napkin on her lap. Mitsuha, I believe they called her. Or Mitsuki. The two were mirror images, except that one favored a whip while the other carried entangling strings.

...And then the rest. Taki, with her white hair and open-chested coat. Somehow, her breasts avoided spilling out despite her obvious lack of a bra. Mitsuki (or Mitsuha?), with her black and yellow striped miniskirt. Yomi, with her scythe. And so on.

Yet the room's quietest occupant worried me most. Mutsu shared little with his companions. He was male. He dressed simply. His black shirt, black pants, and yellow scarf blended into the background. He ate simply, too, if his daily dinner of rice was any indication. He even carried a sword rather than something more exotic.

But beyond all that, Mutsu - or, if you prefer, Sekirei Zero-Five - was a single number.

As Benitsubasa had explained it to me, most Sekirei numbers meant little. Sekirei #80, whoever she was, did not necessarily have an advantage against Sekirei #30. Or vice-versa. But the single numbers were a different matter. Mutsu, in particular, had seen action before. Benitsubasa wouldn't discuss it much, but she gave me the impression that he'd racked up quite a death toll years ago.

Mutsu leaned against the window. He'd been prodding his rice for the past ten minutes. Finally, he took a bite. Swallowed.

Coughed.

A puzzled look spread across his face. He coughed again, harder.

Taki looked up.

"Mutsu, are you-"

"URRGH!"

Mutsu bent over and heaved. Nothing came out. If the other Sekirei had been listening closely, they would have heard a fizzing sound coming from his throat between coughs.

Mutsu clawed at his collar and chest. His breaths, already quick, became almost rodent-paced. Something cut each of them off in turn, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. It sounded a bit like clucking.

The average Sekirei could probably salt a nightshade salad with arsenic, use diesel fuel as a vinaigrette, and survive with slight indigestion.

Alchemical poisons are another matter. Admittedly, alchemy is _technically_ all about the search for higher truth through interaction with the material world, but it's also rather handy for brewing things that can kill people.

...Or Sekirei, in this case.

Mutsu's face had reddened. His pores squeezed out sweat. Throat, stomach, and lungs danced a three-way jig as they tried to pump the poison out. His eyes bulged. The other Sekirei had already dropped their food, and were making loud but unproductive noises. One of them thumped his back.

I suppose that, in the end, Mutsu's simple palate had been his downfall. I'd noticed weeks earlier that Mikogami ordered catered food every so often as a treat for his Sekirei. Profligate spender that he was, Mikogami had simply included Mutsu's request for rice in every order rather than cooking it at home.

It had taken a while, but I'd used mental interference spells on several employees from Mikogami's favorite restaurants. As it turned out, a disturbingly large percentage of culinary workers do not consider it "against their basic nature" to poison their customers' food. (I blame it on the general decline in loyalty among the laboring classes since the rise of representative democracy. But that's neither here nor there.)

From that point, I merely had to wait until one of my puppets reported an order from Mikogami that included a single, separate bowl of rice. The call had arrived a few hours before. I'd given my authorization.

* * *

I shook my head and opened my eyes. A fence blurred in and out of focus, and wind whipped through my hair. I shielded my eyes when a glint of sunlight reflected from Benitsubasa's binoculars.

"Well?" she said.

"Can't you see it from here?"

"Mutsu fell out of my line of sight," she said.

"He's finished," I said. "Probably a Level Four rather than a termination, but he's out of the Plan regardless."

"So he's not dead?" she said.

"I doubt it."

"So that means..."

"Send in the cavalry," I said.

Benitsubasa's smile would have given Caster pause.

"You're going too," I said.

Her smile dimmed slightly. She shook her head.

"I'm staying here. Send the others."

I rolled my eyes.

"I'll be fine," I said. "Our enemies are all _inside_, remember?"

"But-"

"And besides, I can always run away if it gets too dangerous."

Her shoulders tightened.

"But Meriwether-"

"That's an order," I said.

Benitsubasa pursed her lips for a moment or two, but at last, she met my eyes and nodded. I caught myself smirking: when it came to her combat role, my Sekirei could be remarkably professional.

There it was again: 'my' Sekirei. I'd have to monitor that.

A minute later, the combined weight of Benitsubasa, Uzume, and Sanada's three Sekirei crashed through Mikogami's windows. Lacquered wood and shattered glass flew everywhere.

I reinforced my eyes and watched the battle unfold.

I'd ordered Benitsubasa to stay on the sidelines. Other Sekirei could do the hard work; I needed Benitsubasa intact. This rather clear message must have been garbled in translation, somehow, since I was fairly sure that I saw her dancing around Mitsuho's whip. Which did not seem safe at all. Benitsubasa bounced on the balls of her feet. Her hands hung loose at her sides, which must have given Mitsuho a rather clear view of her grinning face.

Twice, Benitsubasa ducked and tried to rush in on the backswing. Twice, Mitsuho angled away. She'd only dodged by inches, though. The third time, Benitsubasa came in low. The whip clipped her hair, sending a puff of pink fuzz into the air. Benitsubasa repaid the compliment. She grabbed Mitsuho by her pigtails and drove a knee into her face. Mitsuho crumpled. Blood dripped from her mouth and nose. Her unconscious breaths came out wet and slobbery.

Benitsubasa stood over her fallen adversary. Her eyes had opened fully now. The grin that had split her face since the beginning of the battle had broadened, if that was possible. And then, without even bothering to wipe the blood splatters off her face, she threw back her head and giggled.

For the briefest of moments, I reflected that: (1) My Sekirei was a little unstable, and (2) Perhaps I could reconsider the wisdom of complaining about her cooking.

Mitsuho's twin (?), Mitsuki, was faring slightly better. Mitsuki's fists and feet blurred as she fought one of Sanada's Sekirei, whose name escapes me. Her movements, combined with the colors of her miniskirt and dress, gave her the appearance of a bumblebee - an image strengthened by the strings she sent buzzing through the air. Her opponent ducked under, jumped over, and leaned around them. It was so fast, in fact, that I didn't even see the punch that smashed Mitsuki through a wall.

Uzume vaulted over the sofa, her cloth tentacles outstretched. Himeko swung her double-ended blade. At the last moment, Uzume's cloth whipped toward the ceiling and pulled her out of the way. The sudden change of direction sent Himeko's blade into the sofa. She spun, but the blade stuck for an moment too long.

Uzume's cloth wrapped around Himeko's head and bashed it into the wall. She repeated this performance until Himeko's sword-arm went limp. When Uzume's cloth loosened again, Himeko dropped like a length of old rope. Her sword clanged on the ground.

The attackers didn't have it all their own way, though. Mikogami's silver-haired Sekirei - Taki, if memory serves - blanketed the room with mist. While it didn't hurt anybody, it slowed our momentum. From my perch, the apartment had become a gray blur.

A small body tumbled out of the blur. I recognized it as Sanada's youngest Sekirei, Shijime. I squinted. She was still breathing, but her crest was gone.

I confess to a sigh of relief when I noticed that she was still alive. I hadn't been looking forward to terminating something so young-looking. Just as well that my enemies had done it.

...And there it was yet _again_. Sentiment. Dilettantish, unscientific sentiment. _Weakness_. My parents would not have been amused.

In my defense, these Sekirei seemed so very _human_ sometimes.

When the fog cleared a few minutes later, the room looked like a demolition crew had worked it over. Concrete dust blanketed the floors. Sheared-off beams jutted from the walls and ceiling. Furniture lay in pieces. Stuffing had spilled out of gashes in the leather. All that tasteful interior furnishing had been reduced to rubble.

There were a number of unconscious Sekirei, too. They included two of Sanada's: Shijime and whatever-her-name-was. Mitsuki and Mitsuha - I couldn't tell which was which - lay side by side. In the next room, someone had put Taki halfway through a refrigerator. Even in unconsciousness, her dress still somehow contained her oversized, bra-less bust.

Mutsu twitched on the carpet. He, too, was still alive, apparently. I noted with some interest that the other Sekirei must have gone out of their way to avoid stepping on him.

Of the five Sekirei I'd sent in, only Benitsubasa, Uzume, and Kujika had survived. The latter was one of Sanada's: the dark-skinned blonde with yellow stars on her bra. She'd delivered the finishing touches to Tanigawa's Sekirei earlier. Now, I could repay the compliment.

Uzume and Benitsubasa circled to opposite sides. Uzume's fabric bolts writhed into position. Benitsubasa shook out her arms and tightened her fists. As Kujika glanced from one to the other, I could almost see the look of recognition spread across her face.

"But...But our Ashikabi said you were working with us!"

Uzume's fabric twitched, and I thought I saw her jaw tighten. Benitsubasa blew a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"No!" Kujika said. "I need to stay with my Ashikabi! We did what you asked us! You can't-"

Fabric bolts flew. Benitsubasa charged in. The rest was a footnote.

* * *

I reminded myself to remove my mental tampering from Sanada that evening.

Mind control was no longer necessary. He'd served his purpose. The Ashikabis of the West and South had burned through each other's stocks of Sekirei like Tohsakas through a jewelry store.

I did a quick inventory

Mutsu, Mitsuho, Itsuki, Kujika, Mitsuki...

...Wait.

Two for the twins...Sanada had three...Mutsu finished up for 'M' names...Taki, Himeko, and the others...

Yomi. The scythe wielder. Number Forty-Three. Where on Earth had Yomi gone? I remembered her standing with the rest of them just a moment ago. Had she disappeared in the fog? No; she hadn't fought any of the other Sekirei. Almost as if she'd slipped out earlier...

I felt a sudden coldness in my chest. Had I remembered the invisibility field? Please tell me I'd-

"So you brought friends, huh?" a voice said. "Cute. Too bad they're too busy to help you."

I whirled around. A woman in a black and white striped dress giggled into her gloved hand. The other hand held a scythe connected to a purple pole. The blade's attachment point zigzagged, like one of those retractable boxing gloves that the common people sell in their novelty shops.

Yomi turned on her tiptoes, crossing her arms behind her back and looking at me from the side in a gesture she probably considered sly. My heart pumped at a few gallons a second.

"That was impressive, what you did to Mutsu," she said. "Whatever you used...Well, _wow_. And the way you took out your own allies. You're a ruthless little bastard, aren't you?"

I started reinforcing my legs. Calling for help would only bring her down on me sooner. If I could just wait a little longer...

Yomi winked.

"Lemme tell you a secret. I'm kinda ruthless too. And I'm thinking the pink-haired one's yours, right? So that's at _least_ one enemy down after...well..."

I had known, intellectually, where the conversation was leading. I hadn't imagined Yomi's speed.

When Benitsubasa had chased me through the mall earlier, she'd assumed that I was a regular human. A regular, fragile human dodging through a crowd of other fragile, regular humans. And for my part, I think I'd realized (subconsciously, at least) that I wasn't in any serious danger from Benitsubasa. Even when we'd first met, I'd doubted that she'd murder me in a crowded mall.

Yomi showed no such compunctions.

Her scythe nearly split me in half. I jumped away. Sparks flew as it scraped along the ground.

"Benitsubasa!" I screamed. "Get over here!"

I doubted that she'd heard me.

"Stand _STILL!_" Yomi shouted.

Her complaint was premature. I was fast. She was faster. The scythe slashed through the front of my coat. Yomi's hands flew to the scythe's hilt. She jabbed it forward like a spear. Although it didn't have a tip, _per se_, the blade still cut deeply.

It _hurt_. I screamed. The cloth felt wet against my skin, and oddly warm. I saw blood on my gloves.

I must have burned a lot of prana with my inefficient, panicked healing that followed. For maybe a second, Yomi's eyes widened when she saw a line of light close up my wounds.

...And then, she moved in to kill me.

I knew I couldn't outrun her. I ran anyway. Adrenaline pounded through my body; everything felt cold and tight and twitchy, as if I'd been given an electric shock in a snowstorm. My father had always talked about the raw panic that could consume a young magus in battle. He'd felt it only once, against a Dead Apostle. Now it was my turn.

Yomi caught my leg with the butt of her scythe. I smashed face-first into the concrete. I slid. Only reinforcement protected my face from being shaved off. I tried to blink blood out of my eyes.

They say that desperation is the best taskmaster.

I can honestly say that I never chanted a five-count Aria faster in my life. My circuits burned. I poured in every ounce of prana that I could spare, and felt my body shriek in protest. I ignored it. In seconds, hundreds of gallons of water blasted toward Yomi. I concentrated it in a narrow stream.

When the mist cleared, Yomi stood there with a hole through her right shoulder. Water and blood dripped from it.

Oddly, my concentration narrowed to the large red bow around her neck. Forever afterward, that scene has encapsulated the Sekirei Plan for me: a perverse mixture of cutesiness and gore.

"Whoa," Yomi said. "Cool trick. Now you're dead."

Pain jolted through my jaw. When I hit the ground again, my teeth no longer aligned. Everything seemed foggy. The pressure inside my head wouldn't go away, and the ringing in my ears needed to STOP.

I reached into my coat. Yomi stepped on my hand with her boot, and then applied pressure. The pain distracted me from the sound of cracking bones.

She finally raised her foot, and I realized that I couldn't move. It wasn't just the damage, either. My body had frozen up. The pain, the cold feeling, the burning circuits, the adrenaline, the exhaustion. I felt outside myself, like I was watching my death through a film projector.

"So long, Mr. Ashikabi."


	6. Chapter 6

If this had been one of those novels I'd read under my mother's supervision as part of our mother-son time (five nights per week from 7:00 to 11:00 PM, three points off for each mispronounced word), Benitsubasa would have rescued me in the last moment before the scythe dropped.

This was not fiction. Fortunately (?) for me, though, Yomi was a sadist.

She hit my leg with the butt end of her scythe. I was too far gone at that point to cry out very loudly. Still, she did her best. Her kick to my ribs, for instance, elicited both a cracking noise and a shriek. I couldn't breathe. Whenever I moved my torso, the pain intensified. What little prana I had left was going into the healing spells I'd activated earlier. It wasn't much.

Nor did my body have the decency to pass out.

I don't remember the exact moment when Yomi's time ran out. Only fragments. A painful twilight consciousness.

The scream of rage that cut through the evening air will stay with me for a while. I remember a pink and black blur. Crashing rubble. A crack. A thumping sound that became squishier and meatier as it continued. And then a series of cracks and pops like a tree branch getting ripped apart.

I do recall the feeling of hands cupping my head and pulling me upward toward a hazy face. A voice called my name. Rather insistently.

"_Meriwether...are...okay?...to say...please...Speak to...Oh-crap-oh-crap-oh..._"

The face made a noise that sounded halfway between a scream and a sob. Something grabbed me by my armpits. My ribs protested. I coughed.

_"BLOOD! He's coughing...no...he can't..."_

Another voice replied. I wish they'd shut up.

_"Benits...calm...just take..."_

_"CALM?...expect me..."_

Something tugged at my chest. The pull slackened in an instant. I felt the coldness of air on my chest. Was somebody...? I tried to complain about unbuttoning my coat without permission, but it came out as a gargle. A painful one. Whatever was playing with my buttons froze at the sound, but then continued.

_"No...don't tell me to calm...HOLE in his STOMACH!"_

_"Just...here...stretcher...hospital."_

I felt pressure on my back and legs, as if I'd lain down in a hammock.

A thrill of adrenaline - what little I had left - washed through me when I heard the word 'hospital'. Not that I was thinking terribly clearly. I tried to sit up. My side did not cooperate.

I found myself moving, and every bounce lanced through my body. Fingers brushed my hair. The blurry face I'd seen earlier leaned closer and made shushing noises. They were occasionally interrupted by a gasp, or hitch, or something like that.

"_Going...okay...just hang..."_

A drop of moisture hit my forehead. Remembering it now, it didn't feel like blood. Not thick or sticky enough. Warm, though.

Even then, I didn't fall completely out of consciousness. Just an agonizing netherworld between sleeping and waking.

* * *

_Three men chased each other through a forest. In the lead ran a man in black. Blades materialized between his fingers. He threw one. The lead pursuer dodged. The blade buried itself into a stump up to its hilt. The man in black only grinned and kicked a tree ahead of him. It toppled. The foremost pursuer jumped around it, his trench coat fluttering in the breeze. The second pursuer threw up his hand. A silver dome formed above his head. The branches bounced off._

_At the forest's edge, I heard the sounds of clashing steel, and saw light where the night's darkness should have been._

* * *

I remember waking, so I must have been sedated at some point.

I opened my eyes to grayish walls, a olive green door, and a sink with dry paint chips peeling off of it. A tube protruded from my arm. I felt bandages. The picture of lilies on the wall seemed familiar, somehow. Nor did the cheap metal bed frame escape my notice.

I blinked. Yes, a stuffed penguin was indeed sitting on my bedside table.

I looked to my right. Benitsubasa was sitting bolt-upright, as if she'd just woken up. She'd apparently pulled the couch next to my bed.

"Benitsu-"

Ugh. I ached everywhere.

I opened and closed my jaw a few times, noting with some pleasure that my previous healing spell had mostly fixed it. Arias work better when you don't gargle them out through mismatching palates. (Not that my spell had accomplished much else).

I muttered a few words.

_Hailaz. Eils. Hails. _

_Helenan. Helan. _

_Kel._

"Where am I?" I said, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Same hospital as Uzume's Ashikabi," Benitsubasa said. "They'd kept Chiho here for observation anyway, so Uzume...um...suggested we put you here as well. That way, we could protect both of you."

"Did they-"

"I've talked to the staff. They'll destroy your medical records," she said.

I raised an eyebrow.

"You're sure?"

Benitsubasa's smile seemed somewhat forced. She fiddled with her fingers.

"I'm very persuasive," she said.

A familiar brunette in a ponytail and inappropriately tight T-shirt poked her head in.

"Benitsubasa told the doctors that if you died, she'd feed the staff their own spinal cords," Uzume said. "She dangled an intern out of the third floor window when he laughed."

Benitsubasa stiffened.

"...And then dropped him," Uzume added.

"OUT!" Benitsubasa shouted.

"Heh."

Uzume ducked and shut the door moments before a flower vase crashed into her previous position. Benitsubasa huffed.

I gestured at the stuffed penguin.

"Did she...?"

"Yes," said Benitsubasa.

"And you-"

"Uzume said it was for luck, or something. I...I figured it was stupid, but why not try it, you know?"

I rolled my eyes and lay back. Damaged body parts knitted themselves together slowly. Everything itched. My prana supply still left something to be desired.

Benitsubasa suddenly seemed very close. I cleared my throat.

"Looking back on it now..." I said. "Well, my calculated risk to send you into battle (while not unreasonable given my knowledge at the time, mind) might not have been the optimal-"

Benitsubasa leaned forward and kissed me. The warm, soft contact on my lips ran through the rest of my body as bits of our prana exchanged.

It was quite unlike her earlier winging. Benitsubasa did not force her tongue down my throat. The kiss seemed almost _chaste_, all things considered, save for the gentle mewling noise that she made into my mouth. She arched, her lips still locked on mine, and wings of light spread from her back. The experience was not as unappealing as I might have expected.

We parted. Her eyes had a sleepy, satisfied sort of look. I was reminded of a well-fed cat.

"Benits-er...hem... that is to say-Ah..."

And then, she grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me. Relatively hard, too.

"IDIOT! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! WHERE WAS YOUR INVISIBILITY FIELD, YOU STUPID, _STUPID_, INSENSITIVE JERK?"

I confess that I wasn't sure what to say for while. Benitsubasa pulled my collar and leaned close to my face, so that our noses touched.

"Well?" she said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Manhandling a patient while he's healing doesn't strike me as a terribly useful-"

She screamed and dumped a second vase of flowers on my head. It contained loose-packed mud instead of water.

"Well, at least it's not my suit this time..."

"Say another word, Meriwether - _one_ more - and I swear I'll force-feed you the hospital Jell-o."

I wasn't entirely sure what Jell-o was, but I gathered from Benitsubasa's tone that this was a serious threat. She stomped back to her sofa, crossed her arms, and glared.

"And why didn't you just poison all of them, anyway?" she said. "Just in case - oh, I dunno - you _forgot _your invisibility field? An omission which, incidentally, would have made you the _stupidest person on earth?_"

"It was fast-acting," I said. "I didn't want somebody else to drop over first and alert Mutsu."

"You could at least have waited to terminate Kujika," she said. "Yomi never would've gotten to you if I'd come back faster."

I shrugged and wished I hadn't. Benitsubasa's lips tightened into a line when she saw me wince.

"I needed to send a message," I said. "Now that two of Great Ashikabis publicly eliminated each other, the small fry will move into the vacuum. We can sit back and watch them rip each other to bits."

"...And with any luck, Minato and Higa will fight over the scraps," she finished. "They'll probably lose more Sekirei in the process."

"Correct."

I heard something rumble outside the window. A shadow passed across the slits of light between the blinds. Another rumble followed

"What was that?" I said.

"MBI's armored personnel carriers," she said. "That's another thing you missed. The Second Stage started."

"The stage that triggers when ninety percent of the Sekirei are winged?" I said.

She nodded.

"The stage when they seal the city off?" I said.

Again, she nodded.

This could be bad. I'd expected to wrap this 'Plan' up quickly. My vacation from the Clock Tower was not indefinite, and I'd already spent well over a month in Shin Tokyo. If they'd sealed the city...

When we'd spoken over the phone, the game master had warned me of something. Should I try to leave, MBI would hunt me down with all of the resources at its disposal. Judging from its private army, these resources were probably considerable.

I hadn't taken the warning seriously at the time. White capes and Einstein hair tend to detract from one's threats. Now, I reconsidered. If MBI followed me, it might collide with the Clock Tower. I could probably count my lifespan on one hand once Lady Barthomeloi found out what I'd done...assuming that MBI didn't kill me first.

"As soon as you heal, we're gonna start sparring. Hard," said Benitsubasa.

"But-" I began.

"I couldn't help but notice that expensive-looking leather-bound library of yours," Benitsubasa said. "Hypothetically, what might happen if somebody kinda-sorta accidentally dumped it into a trash compactor?"

"You raise a fair point. Sparring it is."

She smiled.

"I thought you might say that."

Thus, I found that my life had become complicated.

* * *

My next visitor did not help matters.

The door opened.

The creature was a Sekirei; the otherworldly prana signature told me that much. It (or she, if you prefer) wore a black miniskirt, black buttoned coat, and black stockings. A cloak hung around her shoulders. The cloak's closed, tapering sleeves evoked thoughts of a bird's wings.

Like most of her species, the creature looked youngish - her skin had no blemishes, anyway - but her heavy-lidded eyes had already developed crows' feet. One got the impression that she suffered from insomnia. Her hair was the color of cigarette ash. It kept a youthful sheen that truly gray hair lacked.

She also wore a sword in her belt. Even before the creature had crossed the threshold, Benitsubasa had stepped between my visitor and my bed.

"Well...hello, Benitsubasa," the Sekirei said. "It's been a while."

I suspect that Benitsubasa didn't even realize that her fists had tightened to the point of shaking.

"H-hello, Karasuba."

I recognized the name. Sekirei Number Four. MBI's Dog, they called her. Head of the Disciplinary Squad. If Benitsubasa was to be believed (and I wasn't sure that I did), this creature had put more people in their graves than Assassin, Caster, and Kiritsugu Emiya combined.

My visitor leaned over Benitsubasa's shoulder and graced me with a smile-that-wasn't-a-smile. I felt an odd sense of recognition. Magi often wore a similar expression.

When Benitsubasa moved between us again, Karasuba laughed.

"Ah, but you're a _brave_ little bird, aren't you?" she said. "Getting between a huntress and her quarry."

Benitsubasa wrenched her eyes toward Karasuba's own. She had straightened like a ramrod.

"Don't touch him," she said.

"My, my...you're shivering, Benitsubasa. Is it for your sake, I wonder...or that human's?"

Karasuba's fingers danced on the hilt of her sword like a musician playing a piano. _Ra-ta-ta-tap. Ra-ta-TA-ta-ta-tap._

"You want to speak to me?" I said.

"Ye-es," she said. "As a matter of fact, I do."

She slid into a chair and crossed her legs. That infernal smile stayed in place.

"_Officially_, of course, I'm visiting to congratulate a former squad mate on the Plan's first Level 5 termination..."

Karasuba touched Benitsubasa's chin and sighed theatrically.

"...My little girl's all grown up," she said. "They'll be cleaning Yomi off that roof for weeks."

Here Karasuba's smile dropped. Her breaths came faster, and those sleepy eyes widened.

"More importantly, I wanted to get a look at the Ashikabi who can do such _interesting _things."

My fingers twitched under the sheet.

"What do you mean 'interesting'?" I said.

"I might have expected that kind of display from a water Sekirei like Number Nine," she said. "Not a human."

My adrenal glands gave me a hasty reminder that yes, I _had _recovered enough to feel fear again. I was sitting upright now.

"What did you see?" I said. "And how?"

"You humans are such an ingenious species when it comes to being nosy," she said. "It was thoughtful of MBI to monitor the battleground with spy satellites, don't you think? Your fight with Yomi was fascinating on a high definition screen...though I would have preferred more fighting and less crawling around like a gimp rat."

I felt a surge of relief, and snorted in a rather undignified manner.

"Nice try, but I'm calling your bluff," I said.

"Come again?"

"You might have convinced me that you had footage if you'd mentioned surveillance cameras. Or at least something within the realm of possibility. 'Spy satellites', though? Recording footage from _space_? I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

I chuckled at the absurdity of the spectacle: here was an alien of nigh-invincible fighting prowess, and she was trying to intimidate me with nonsense out of a Jules Verne novel. Karasuba quirked an eyebrow.

"High-quality satellite images are fairly common these days, Mr..."

"Meriwether will do. And no, I'm afraid I don't believe you. You'll be telling me next that these 'spy satellites' of yours can send their footage to those odd computer-camera-phone things through radio waves."

By now, Karasuba was looking thoroughly confused, doubtless wondering how I'd seen through her little charade so easily. She was a good actress, though - she spoke with the air of a person who, despite her better judgment, had decided to try to explain something to a slightly mentally handicapped individual.

"Have you ever heard of Google Earth, Meriwether?"

"What's a 'google'?"

Karasuba's brow furrowed. Her voice acquired a dangerous lilt.

"Are you by any chance _mocking_ me, human?"

Her fingers played across the hilt of her sword. Perhaps it was a bit suicidal, but I felt a spark of annoyance at what was clearly becoming poor sportsmanship.

"Look here," I said. "Your bluff failed. And if you want to throw around made-up words to confuse the issue, then you shouldn't get annoyed when people point out that they don't exist."

Karasuba's eye twitched. She wheeled around.

"Benitsubasa, is he-"

"Yep. Stone-cold serious."

"So he doesn't know about-"

Benitsubasa sighed.

"Karasuba, I once explained to him that people navigate the internet by using a web browser and typing words into the search box, right? You know what he said? His exact words were 'While I can identify the meanings of each of those words individually, I'm afraid that you've arranged them into gibberish. Please try again'."

"You're joking."

Benitsubasa shook her head solemnly.

"Then _you_ tell him," Karasuba said.

My Sekirei turned to me and confirmed that yes, Karasuba's preposterous tale of super-cameras on satellites was in fact true. While I reserved judgment on the matter, I felt an unwelcome gnawing of doubt as I considered the implications of my magecraft being caught on film.

A flurry of movement interrupted these musings. Karasuba lunged toward the bed. Benitsubasa jumped into her way. I couldn't even _see_ Karasuba's hand as it shot out and pinned Benitsubasa against the wall. The other hand closed around my throat and tugged me to eye level.

Karasuba's eyelids were fully open now, and she was panting into my face. Her voice came out in a hiss.

"_One_ more thing, Ashikabi," she said. "You killed Mutsu. _That_ was inconsiderate. I'd been looking forward to gutting him myself for years. And now I can't. But I'm going to let you live, Meriwether. And do you know why? Because humans are so much more _fun_ to butcher than Sekirei, but most of them _CAN'T FIGHT BACK_!"

A fleck of spittle alighted on my nose. Not that Karasuba was frothing at the mouth, but it tends to happen when you're speaking from an inch away.

"I don't know what you are," she said. "Human...hybrid...Sekirei descendant...whatever. But others like you must exist. I hope so. Because I'm going to save you for last, Meriwether. And then I'm going to carve you up on network television (since whoever raised you apparently couldn't access a streamed video to save their lives), and the _rest of your kind_ will come to me. I'll bathe in their blood before the Jinki put an end to this world."

She was gasping now, and not just because she'd gotten through the entire speech in one breath.

"If you ever meet our equivalent of the Disciplinary Squad, I suspect that your attitude will change," I said.

Karasuba threw back her head and laughed. She shoved me back into the bed and released Benitsubasa, who immediately resumed her position between us. Karasuba's boots clopped on the floor four, five, six times as she walked to the door. And then she turned, as if she'd forgotten something.

"Oh, and Ashikabi?"

"What?"

"You need to screw your Sekirei more often. I don't think I've smelled pheromones this strong since Miya had her crush on Takehito."

Benitsubasa's mouth dropped open. The door closed. My heart rate still appeared to be compensating for twenty years without exercise, and took several minutes to return to normal.

"Er, Benitsubasa..."

She seemed to be making an effort to look away. Her face practically glowed red. Not that I blamed her. Inconvenient biological reactions to involuntary drives can often be embarrassing. Perhaps it was mating season, or some such.

Yet Benitsubasa had conducted herself with consummate professionalism in the battle with Mikogami. It seemed almost unfair that she should suffer from this sort of indignity.

"Y-yes, Meriwether?"

"Your...ah...condition sounds...well, inconvenient, I suppose."

The tied bow on the front of Benitsubasa's gi must have been positively riveting for all she was picking at it.

I tried a reassuring smile, and patted her hand paternally.

"...And I think I might be able to do something about that," I said.

Her face's glow became radiant. She peeked at me out of the corner of her eye.

"R-really?"

"Of course," I said. "While I'm hardly an _expert_ in alchemy, I daresay I could whip up something to suppress the effect for you. It would be a simple matter, really-"

Benitsubasa jumped off the bed and yanked her hand away from mine as if she'd been bitten. She pointed a shaking finger at me.

"_YOU_..." she said.

"A simple 'thank you' will do..."

"...are the most impossible _IDIOT..._"

"Wait, what?"

"...I've _EVER_ met!"

She stormed out and slammed the door behind her with such force that the lock snapped off. As was becoming distressing commonplace, I found myself in an empty room, wondering what had transpired.

"Oh, and Benitsubasa?" I called. "You _will_ remember to cook cannelloni and bring it here tonight, won't you? I'd normally expect something less Mediterranean, but in light of your recent difficulties..."

No answer.

"Er, Benitsubasa?"

I wondered briefly whether my contract with Uzume obligated her to prepare me food.


	7. Chapter 7

The next week hadn't brought any new revelations about the 'Jinki' that Karasuba had mentioned. If Benitsubasa knew anything about them, she wasn't telling, either.

I didn't have access to a proper magus's library, so research on my own was difficult. Perhaps I could find a local Clock Tower representative to get the books I needed. Did they _have_ offices in Tokyo?

At the moment, though, research was far from my mind.

I lunged off my back foot and thrust a fist out. Benitsubasa leaned back. My blow reached within a fraction of an inch of her face, but didn't connect. She grinned. I was watching her with my chin down, as she'd taught me, and only saw her smile through my brows.

"Stop telegraphing," she said.

This was _supposed_ to be easy. Benitsubasa had assured me that longer reach meant a lot when you traded these 'jab' punches.

Besides, fighting was basically an academic pursuit, wasn't it? It had certain rules of thumb, certain techniques to memorize and piece together like words into sentences. I already _had _the reinforcement, so it wasn't as if I lacked athleticism, either. Well, technically. Or was I missing something...?

As it was, Benitsubasa danced in and out, giving me light slaps across the face at will. Her occasional instructions - as if I was some empty-headed _student_ - added to the exercise's aggravation.

"What do you mean 'telegraphing'?" I said.

Dodge-in-slap-out.

"You're winding up and lunging at me like you're fencing or something," she said. "Don't let me see what you're up to. More snap...Oh, and I didn't mean 'pop the jab' literally. Stop saying 'pop'."

"And how do you expect me to get power that way - ha!"

I threw a punch. I'd hoped that our conversation might loosen Benitsubasa's defense. No such luck. She lazily slapped my blow away and poked me in the stomach - with her finger, not a punch. It still hurt.

"When you wind up, you can't catch the other guy by surprise," she said. "It's the ones you don't see coming that hurt."

I rolled my eyes. Benitsubasa frowned when she saw it.

"Oh, come now," I said. "That's preposter-"

_Bumph._

I blinked. For a moment there, I'd lost track of my vision...

_Bumph._

I shook my head. Wait, what...

_Bumph._

Ow.

Benitsubasa winked at me.

"At the rate you're going, you'll lose enough IQ points to almost be normal again," she said.

My own jab came out very slowly and stiffly. Benitsubasa didn't even bother blocking. It was more a push than a punch, really. I stumbled closer and sort of bumped into her.

"And stay at range," she said.

She grabbed my shoulders. My stomach lurched as her leg lifted my inner thigh. I felt a sensation akin to riding a very high swingset on the downswing as I flipped through the air. Fortunately, I had the sense to reinforce my back

As I lay on the lawn, it occurred to me that this 'sparring' time would be better put to use doing something productive. Benitsubasa offered me her hand. I waved it off and stood up.

"You OK?" she said.

"Ducky."

"Um...Meriwether?"

"What?" I said.

"Something arrived for you in the mail today."

I groaned. Ever since I'd decided (and I use the word loosely) to stay in Shin Tokyo, I'd asked my landlord in Fuyuki to forward my mail to the appropriate post office box. Consequently, I'd become inundated with credit card offers, magazine subscriptions, and other assorted garbage.

"As I've already told you, Benitsubasa, you should feel free to burn whatever doesn't look like-"

She held up a parchment envelope.

"...Oh."

Its black wax seal bore the inscription "_Veritas_", surrounded in laurel leaves. I spoke the appropriate Aria. It opened.

* * *

_To His Son Meriwether, Residing In Shin Tokyo Without His Father's Knowledge Or Permission, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, Sends Greetings With Paternal Zeal:_

_Publius Ovidius Naso opined, 'abeunt studia in mores', and it is with this motto in mind that I turn my attention to certain matters that I cannot overlook any longer. _

_It has been brought to my attention through my contacts in Fuyuki that you have not even visited that dreary city. Instead, you have wriggled into the decadent concrete pustule that is Shin Tokyo._

_It must be noted before proceeding further that your mother and I assented to your trip to Japan only with the gravest reservations. As covered in greater length elsewhere (see my letter of May 5, pages 104 to 155, inclusive, and footnotes 17-38), your academic performance remains a cause for concern. Your second place overall in your peer group does not augur well for your future in academia. Or in life, for that matter. Or as a worthy son._

_And yet, despite my warnings and exhortations to remain in the Clock Tower over your vacation and study, you insisted upon this frolic in Japan. Your mother even supported you in your willfulness, arguing, as I recall, that your great uncle was an antiquarian of some repute, and that perhaps your historical endeavors in Fuyuki would unlock some (hitherto absent) aptitude for research. Foolishly, perhaps, I capitulated._

_At this unhappy hour, both of us have witnessed the outcome of our folly. Having slipped your harness, you have now - to stretch the metaphor but a little further - trampled the wheat, wrecked the granary, and smashed the hen house to kindling._

_Speaking of animalistic behavior, your mother and I have not failed to notice a disturbing report in Sunday's Times about an upsurge in Japanese prostitution. And apparently, females find foreigners attractive over there. Were this but a year ago, I would laugh up my sleeve at the mere suggestion that my son's true purpose in Japan was a lifestyle of debauchery. A common trap for young men, perhaps, but not my son. Now, though, I begin to wonder. Have you truly forsaken your books for lechery, perversity, and vice? Is this the sorry state of affairs that awaits the El-Melloi line after my death? If so, then I implore you to inform me of this forthwith, so that your mother and I can adopt another heir more worthy of the El-Melloi crest._

_Return to the Clock Tower at once. _

_Do not force me to come to Japan myself and collect you...though if necessary, I will._

_- Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society; Exasperated Father_

* * *

I felt my body sag back into its previous position: lying on the grass, face up. Benitsubasa bit her lip.

"What is it?"

I held up the letter. She took it gingerly, as if holding a bomb. She started reading. The parchment slipped from her limp fingers a minute or two later.

"No..." she whispered.

"We need to finish this 'Sekirei Plan' _quickly_," I said. "Before my father comes here to get me, and finds out what I've been doing."

"Meriwether, he can't _really_ force you to-"

"Have I ever told you about the _Volumen Hydragyrum_?" I said.

She hesitated, and then shook her head.

"That's what my father calls his pet. It's a 140-kilogram, semi-sentient blob of mercury that can tear things apart with razor whips. Oh, yes, and my father once filled up twenty-four floors of the Fuyuki Hyatt with monsters, spirits, lethal bounded fields, and spatial alterations just to kill, at most, six other people."

"You're kidding."

"No. I am not."

Benitsubasa became uncharacteristically mum. Her expression reminded me of how she'd looked when I'd first explained the existence of magecraft. This one was more tense, though.

"And if my father finds out that I've exposed magecraft on _film_, he'll probably turn me over to the Enforcers himself," I said. "I know _I _certainly would in his position."

Benitsubasa stared at me. Those delicate hands of hers tightened at her sides.

"Your father sounds like a callous bastard," she said.

"Pardon?"

Benitsubasa started pacing. Her arms made sharp flailing gestures with each word, as if beseeching the heavens.

"I mean, for starters: the whole 'lechery' thing in his letter?" she said. "Seriously? _That's _what he thinks you're doing here? And who uses words like that, anyway? More importantly, has he ever _met_ you? And what kind of man would give up his own _son_ to-"

"Benitsubasa."

Something in my tone must have caught her attention, because she stopped pacing.

"Huh?"

"My _father_ is one of the greatest magi of his generation," I snapped. "He made more breakthroughs in spiritual invocation in five years than they'd made for the last twenty. I won't listen to some _alien _female blacken his name to my face."

Benitsubasa jerked back as if I'd physically struck her. She opened and closed her mouth. For the first time since I'd met her, Benitsubasa had tears in her eyes.

"F-fine," she said. "Fine! You feel that way? Then you can j-just leave your _'alien female_' and go back to your horrible, _insane_ family! The same family that would turn you over to whatever nutcase equivalent you people have to Karasuba. No problem there, right? I'm just your _tool _to win the Plan anyway!"

Benitsubasa wiped her face on her sleeve. The moisture darkened fabric that had grayed with time back to its original black. I heard a sniffle. She walked toward the house.

I realized that my fists had clenched. I forced them open. An odd sensation in my gut wouldn't go away. It wasn't fear. It was hotter, and heavier, and felt uncannily like shame. When I called out to her, and heard my own voice rising.

"Would you prefer getting vivisected?" I said.

Benitsubasa froze.

"What?" she said.

"Because that's what the Clock Tower would do to you if you came back with me," I said. "Over and over again. Do you understand me? They'd heal you each time, and then restart the peeling process from the beginning-"

Benitsubasa clapped her hands over her ears.

"_STOP IT!_" she shrieked. "Shut up! Shut up! I don't want to hear this!"

And in that moment, I realized that neither did I. It was the first time I could remember that describing a normal experimental procedure had made my skin crawl.

For all that Benitsubasa would have been an interesting test subject, I didn't _want_ to subject this girl to the Clock Tower's research. At all.

Benitsubasa sank to her knees, genuinely sobbing now. As I stood there in the grass, my body felt about three times too large, as if I'd had a growth spurt overnight and hadn't learned how to control it.

"I'm...er-I'm sorry," I said.

I sat down next to her and experimentally put a hand on her back.

I'm told that this is helpful when comforting crying people. The procedure seemed to have worked on her, at any rate. She held my hand and put it around her shoulder. The sobs slowed, and then stopped. She sniffed.

"I just...I'm so tired, you know?" she said. "...No. No, I guess you wouldn't."

Normally, dismissing my comprehension abilities would have elicited a stronger response, but I admit that I was feeling oddly out of sorts just then.

"Try me," I said.

Benitsubasa looked away, though she still watched me out of the corner of her eye.

"Have you ever cared about anyone?" she said.

"Well..." I said. "There are my parents, of course...and, er..."

"I mean -" here she sniffed again "- I mean romantically. L-like a girlfriend, or a wife, or something."

I raised my eyebrow.

"Girlfriend...A mistress, you mean?" I said.

"Whatever."

"I don't see a point to it."

She sighed and let her arms drop to her lap.

"And there's my answer," she said.

I cleared my throat.

"That is to say, my parents are going to marry me off in a few years anyway," I said. "Why chase what I can't keep?"

She looked up again.

"So you're just gonna agree to an arranged marriage?"

I shrugged.

"I'm a magus," I said.

Benitsubasa's head sank, and she nodded. She picked at a dandelion, removing its yellow petals one by one and dropping them in the grass. We sat in silence for a while longer.

"...I-if you had a choice-"

"Eh?"

"If you had a choice..." she said. "I mean, if you could pick any wife you wanted, what would she be like?"

To be honest, I'd never thought about it before. I rubbed my chin and considered.

"Well, she'd be intelligent, for a start," I said.

Benitsubasa gave a rather unfeminine snort.

"Yeah, big surprise there. What else?"

"She wouldn't have any close emotional ties to people outside of our family," I said. "Or former lovers. Or children from previous marriages. In an ideal world, I would want absolute loyalty. My father nearly lost my mother to a...pretty face, shall we say. It could have ended very badly for all of them."

"O-kay...I guess that answer's _sorta_ normal...ish. Although most people would phrase the whole 'trusting and exclusive relationship' thing a little less-"

"She'd be willing to kill people when necessary, of course," I said.

"-Aaaand I spoke too soon."

"Preferably she'd be good at it, too," I said. "Some of the best Enforcers are women, come to think of it. Helps 'em get close to their targets, you see. Not that I'd marry an Enforcer. Hm. Paranoia might also be a useful trait for a wife. Discretion, too. Emotionally resilience as well, naturally."

"So you don't want a wife. You want an accomplice."

I blinked.

"Well, er...I'd always preferred 'partner'," I said. "It seems a bit more reciprocal, if you see what I mean."

Benitsubasa had crossed her legs, tailor-style. She leaned forward, resting her head on her hands. Her next words came out in a mumble so quiet that I barely heard them.

"I...guess I could do that," she said. "Okay, so it's not love. It's...it's something, though, right? And-and if it's what he wants..."

"Eh?"

She looked away.

"I...never mind," she said. "It's nothing. Um, tell me more about this ideal wife of yours."

I _ahem_'d.

"Well, I suppose she'd be willing to bear me a son, too."

Benitsubasa seemed to perk up a bit.

"Yeah, I was wondering when you'd get to that," she said.

"Just a single son, mind," I said. "Can't split the family Crest. Besides, I wouldn't want to exploit my wife's generosity by insisting on intercourse after that. "

Benitsubasa stared at me.

"That's - wait...exploit her generosit - how do you even...Meriwether, I never thought I'd be the one asking a human this, but _were you raised in a lab?_"

"I don't know if I'd call my father's estate a 'lab', exactly. Though his workshop might qualify. Why do you ask?"

Benitsubasa sighed and shook her head.

"Never mind."

She dusted herself off and headed back for the house.

* * *

We had a lot work to do, after all. After I'd eliminated Mikogami, Higa had moved all of his meal preparation into his compound. He'd also hired food inspectors. I didn't want them uncovering my ingredients, so poison was out. Besides, he would be ready for me now.

Minato Sahashi in the North presented another problem. The high school graduate didn't look like much, but his group of Sekirei included at least two "single numbers": Kazehana and Tsukiumi. Minato's landlady, whoever she was, also carried a disturbing prana signature. She kept killing my familiars with a purple bounded field that felt cold and smelled of corpses.

No matter. In a few days, I'd cripple Minato and weaken Higa in the bargain.

...All I needed to do was negotiate with Higa.

A thought occurred to me.

"Ah, Benitsubasa?"

She turned. The wind blew a strand hair across her eyes.

"Yes?"

"Ehm...purely out of academic curiosity, what would _your_ ideal mate - er, Ashikabi - be like?" I said.

She rolled her eyes and exhaled.

"You already _know_ the answer to that," she said.

"What, you mean that Natsuo fellow, or whatever his name was?"

"No," she said. "Not Natsuo."

All right, if she wanted to be coy about it, I suppose it wasn't any of my business. Still, I reflected, a magus must always be curious. Childish though it might have been.

"Fair enough. Describe your ideal Ashikabi, then," I said.

Benitsubasa's eyes took on a far away look.

"He's-I mean, he'd be...smart," she said. "Dedicated. And a little cold, I guess. Aloof. But he'd have this cute insecure side, you know? Only I could see it, but it'd be there. Like how he'd get all fussy whenever he was flustered..."

Benitsubasa gave me a smile that seemed sad, somehow.

"...and he'd love me," she said.

Seeming satisfied with this answer, Benitsubasa opened the door and slipped into the house. I adjusted my collar. The blasted thing had gotten out of alignment all of the sudden.

I'm usually not one for charity. In this case, though, I could make an exception. After I won the Sekirei Plan and whatever vague prize came with it, I'd figure out how to remove Benitsubasa's connection to me.

She could go off and mate with whatever Ashikabi would make her happy. Whoever the hypothetical Ashikabi she'd described turned out to be, Benitsubasa would be welcome to find him. I wasn't selfish enough to insist on continued service after she'd helped me win the Plan.

And for some reason, I really hoped she would. Find happiness, I mean.

...Though if you asked me, Benitsubasa's 'ideal' Ashikabi sounded like a bit of an ass.


	8. Chapter 8

Negotiating a multiple assassination is surprisingly tricky work.

I'd wiped out Mikogami in full view of Shin Tokyo. I'd left Mutsu - perhaps the Plan's foremost threat with the exception of Karasuba - a drooling mess. And yet, despite all that publicity, it wasn't as if I could put out a newspaper advertisement: _Amoral Ashikabi Seeks Employment. Generous Pricing Scheme. Murder Optional. _

Of course, if I'd been an Enforcer, I could have just used my network of previously satisfied customers to introduce me to Higa. I was no Enforcer. Nor could I walk into Higa's compound. They'd kidnap me in record time and use me as a bargaining chip to control Benitsubasa. I certainly didn't want Higa contacting _me_, either. I preferred to keep my base of operations invisible. (Literally).

At this impasse, Benitsubasa showed her worth. She spent hours browsing the copy of the Internet that she kept on her computer. She must have purchased her Internet recently, too, since it seemed to be an updated edition: Benitsubasa discovered that Higa would attend a black-tie charity event in three days. Our friend had presumably agreed to it before he'd become the Ashikabi of the East.

Oh, he'd bring his Sekirei, all right. But he couldn't bring all of them, and Minaka's injunction against open use of Sekirei would keep them from attacking me first.

* * *

And so, three days later, here we were.

I swirled wine in my glass. The liquid was a rich, dark purple, and reflected the light from the chandeliers dimly. Hardly up to the standards of my father's vineyards, but then, very few wines are.

Men and women spun across the dance floor. For the most part, the men wore tuxedos. None of them wore white gloves, though. The women had taken a more colorful approach - tropical songbirds fluttering through a flock of penguins. Females in excessive makeup wore, as their fancies took them, cobalt, chartreuse, rose, white, burgundy, or scarlet. Some fabrics had a nearly metallic sheen, while others were cut from duller stuff.

As for me, I'd chosen my customary blue suit/robe hybrid, for the very sensible reasons that: (1) it looked better than everybody else's apparel, and (2) it could stop bullets. I'd added a silver gorget for appearances' sake. The other guests seemed to appreciate it, at any rate - I'd been getting stares for the last ten minutes. Envy, no doubt.

Benitsubasa nodded to me from across the room.

I almost hadn't recognized her at first. For some incomprehensible reason, she'd insisted upon making her appearance that night a "surprise", and had barred me from seeing her before she was "finished". I admit that the result was unexpected. In keeping with our low profile, Benitsubasa had dyed her hair black. She had compensated, though, with a rich red dress that left her collarbones bare. I couldn't help but notice the slimness of her neck and shoulders. If she hadn't been a Sekirei, I would have even gone so far as to say that her high cheekbones and small nose - indeed, the nigh-elfin daintiness of her figure as a whole - gave her an air of elegance.

She glided over to me. I do not use the term lightly; for all her tomboyish manner when about the house, Benitsubasa shared her species' inhuman coordination. She could be very graceful when she wanted to be.

She smirked.

"Like what you see, Meriwether?"

I took a sip of my wine and considered.

"You look almost...human," I said.

Benitsubasa raised an eyebrow.

"I guess I'll take that as a compliment," she said.

"As you should."

"You don't look so bad yourself," she said. "Although you could've done without the slicked-back hair."

"If it worked for my father, it'll work for -"

And then, I noticed Higa.

He'd forsaken his usual white suit for a tuxedo, but his face hadn't changed. It was still sharp and unsmiling; rather like a stoat's, in fact, or some similar species of vermin. Higa's hair was fluffed in that artfully unkempt style that younger Japanese men seemed to favor. Even as he maintained some meaningless conversation or other, his eyes roved about the room as if he was expecting someone to jump on him.

Not that an attacker would have had an easy time. A woman walked arm-in-arm with Higa, and two more loitered a few feet away. Each scanned the room like their master. They'd dyed their hair like Benitsubasa had, but their prana signatures and tastelessly large busts gave them away.

"Well?" I said.

Benitsubasa bit her lip.

"The depressed-looking one with the muscular legs is Katsuragi," she said. "Number 86. Fighter type. Good, but I could take her without much trouble."

I pointed to the other one, a tan Sekirei with very short hair.

"And on the left?"

"She's Number 18, Ichiya. Also a fighting type. Figures, since it's not like Higa could bring Sekirei with swords or anything. Nasty teep and roundhouse kicks. Her hands suck, though. She likes fighting even more than I do," she said.

"I seem to recall you giggling when you smashed your knee into an unconscious opponent," I said.

Benitsubasa gave me a level stare.

"_Even more than I do_," she repeated.

"Consider me apprised of the danger."

Higa's eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw us, which suggested that he'd either recognized Benitsubasa despite her disguise, or that he'd seen _me_ during the fight with Mikogami (which would have been bad). He seemed patient, though. Rather than head over to us, Higa drifted through a group of businessmen at a leisurely pace, exchanging pleasantries all the way.

The Sekirei with the almost-shaved head - Ichiya, Benitsubasa had called her - even stopped to dip a strawberry in the chocolate fountain. She bit deeply into it, letting the juices dribble down her lips before licking them up and smiling at me. As soon as she'd locked eyes with me, she very slowly and deliberately started sucking on the mutilated fruit. She licked the last of the chocolate off and popped it in her mouth.

I found myself staring, unable to look away. Her table manners were appalling.

"Hey," Benitsubasa said. "Snap out of it."

"But did you _see_ that?"

Benitsubasa rolled her eyes. I shook my head and hoped that Ichiya didn't reach for the peaches next.

"Who's the Sekirei on his arm?" I said. "The one with the frameless glasses?"

Benitsubasa squinted, and she licked her lips.

"I think...I think that's whatsername. Kochou. Can't remember her number, sorry. I didn't know her well before the Plan. Brain type. She does electronic stuff and hacking."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Hacking?" I said.

"Yeah."

"She's a combat type?"

"Uh, _no_, she's a brain type, like I just said," said Benitsubasa.

"Then what does she hack with?"

I was certain that what I'd just said couldn't have been as stupid as the look Benitsubasa gave me seemed to suggest.

"A computer," she said.

"Isn't that a little blunt? Seems unwieldy, too. I could see hacking with a sword or an axe, but-"

"_Computer_ hacking, you idiot!"

"Maybe if you'd called her a _bludgeoner_...though I suppose 'hacker' does possess a rather visceral quality, and perhaps if you had a very sharp computer screen-"

"SHE STEALS INFORMATION FROM PEOPLE'S COMPUTERS!"

Benitsubasa's semi-shout - complete with arms outstretched over her head - drew a few stares. I also a caught a mutter or two about 'that weird Matrix guy', whoever he was. Benitsubasa seemed to notice the attention, since she blushed and lowered her hands.

"So wait," I said. "Kochou's a burglar?"

Benitsubasa opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again. Finally...

"...You know what? Yeah. We'll go with that. She's a burglar."

Yet for some reason, Benitsubasa made little quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

"...So does she usually carry a crowbar and a lockpick, or-"

"Shut. Up."

Our quarry reached us moments later. He held out a hand (which I graciously deputized Benitsubasa to shake).

"First things first," I said. "I'm-"

"The Ashikabi who took out Sanada and Mikogami," Higa said.

"Correct."

"So what's on your mind?"

I gestured toward the ballroom's doors.

"Perhaps we should take our conversation somewhere a bit more private," I said.

"You know, it's a funny thing," he said. "I tracked down Sanada-Formerly-Of-The-West. He couldn't remember how he'd lost his Sekirei. Or where he'd been for the past couple days, for that matter."

Higa gave me another of those smiles that didn't reach his crafty, weaselly little eyes.

"No, I'm afraid I'll be staying right here," he said. "In public. And my Sekirei will be keeping a _very_ close watch on you, Mister...?"

Oh, this fellow was cautious to a fault, wasn't he just? Although it was only a guess on my part, I also doubted that he'd crack under pressure. On the bright side, caution has its virtues. Loose lips, as they were wont to say during that unpleasantness in the '40s, can sink ships.

Perhaps I'd indulge in a little bluntness of my own.

"I can eliminate Minato's single numbers for you," I said.

Higa nodded.

"I know."

"I'll expect compensation."

"I know."

I reached into my coat, and Higa's Sekirei tensed. I saw Benitsubasa's own bare shoulders tightening. They reminded me of cords. The girl may not have been built like a prizefighter, but she had very little excess body fat. Everybody seemed to relax when I pulled a contract out a second or two later, though.

"My terms are these: I'll eliminate Tsukiumi and Kazehana for you. In return, you will order four of your own Sekirei to terminate each other. That will still leave you with more firepower than any likely opponent."

The tension instantly returned. Ichiya practically snarled at me. Given her slovenly display earlier, I can't say I was surprised.

Yet Higa was still smiling.

"I have a counteroffer," he said. "Kochou?"

She pulled out a tiny gray box that looked like a miniature television, except that it was flat. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. How many more, then, for the clip of film that appeared on the screen. I recognized its characters: a scythe-wielding female and her target. The screen showed my water spell in remarkable clarity.

"If you terminate two of Minato's single numbers, I _may _decide not to post this online," Higa said.

My fists wanted very badly to clench, preferably around Higa's throat. If he posted this thing, I doubted that I could stop him in time. Whoever published the Internet tended to release updated editions with alarming frequency.

However...

"Have you considered, Mr. Izumi, that-"

He coughed.

"Higa," he said. "My last name's Higa. Izumi's my firs-"

"Blast and confound you people and your mixed-up names! _Whoever_ you are, it must have occurred to you that I have friends with similar talents who might want to keep them secret."

Higa nodded to the alien fighting machines flanking him.

"I'll take my chances."

"But it _is_ a risk," I said. "Far better, I think, to make a different deal."

"Oh? And what's that?"

I pulled out another contract and hastily scratched out the terms:

In return for my help, Higa would destroy all copies of the video in his possession and promise never to reveal what he knew. And there was one other term.

Higa looked up from the contract.

"And what makes you think I can make a 'best efforts' attempt to destroy MBI's video footage, as you put it?" he said.

I caught myself smirking.

"I don't know much about technology, Mr. Higa," I said. "But I know how thoroughly people guard information when they don't want it found. You've somehow extracted some very important footage from a corporation with enough power to take over a city."

Higa looked to his Sekirei, and then back to the contract. He bounced the parchment in his hand. If Higa was as bright as he appeared, then he must have known how binding it would be. I'd have been foolish to give it to him otherwise.

"Best efforts?" he said.

"Best efforts," I said. "But destroying your own footage isn't negotiable. Everything goes, and you can't make any attempts to reveal my identity again."

"And that's only after you eliminate Tsukiumi and Kazehana?"

"My own promise is a condition precedent to your obligation, yes. Though if you release your footage before I try to fulfill the contract, you'll regret it"

"What else?"

"Benitsubasa tells me that you can access MBI's spy-satellite-camera-thingummies. Kindly provide me with intelligence about Minato's movements. I can't track him near Izumo Inn for reasons I'm not going to reveal."

"And you'll report to me-"

"I'll do no such thing," I said. "My methods and timetable are my own. I'll tell you when it's done. That's all."

After an eternity or two, Higa put pen to paper.

A wise man once told me that in a well-negotiated deal, everyone walks away unhappy. Higa would eliminate two powerful opponents, but he'd also sacrificed a prime bit of blackmail material. His attempt to delete MBI's recording might draw the corporation's attention toward him. If he was sufficiently paranoid, he might also have worried that I'd placed a spell on him, either during our meeting or as part of the signing. Well, beyond the contract itself, anyway.

As for me, I'd just agreed to help an opponent weaken his rival without getting any in-game compensation. I'd also discovered that one of my opponents wasn't as incompetent as the rest.

Not that I was particularly worried. Even if I eliminated both Tsukiumi and Kazehana, Higa would still find himself against Minato's remaining Sekirei: the young female with a green thumb, the computer expert, the brown-haired fighter, and that effeminate-looking single number with an aptitude for pyrokinesis. I wasn't entirely sure that this last had formally attached himself to Minato, but if not, he seemed well on his way.

And how did I know all this without Higa's reports?

Uzume lived with them, you see.

Indeed, in one of the Plan's many ironies, I'd only found her in the first place because I'd been monitoring Izumo House. Thus far, she'd been more valuable than my on-again, off-again surveillance. That would probably change.

After our deal had concluded, I was all for leaving. The remaining details didn't take long. We arranged a drop-off point for Higa's intelligence reports on Minato. I gave my regards to our new "partners" (note the quotation marks; they connote sarcasm) and headed for the door.

Benitsubasa, however, had other ideas.

The ink had barely dried on the contract - now tucked firmly back into my coat - when Benitsubasa took my hand and pulled me toward the dance floor. I raised an eyebrow at this, but ultimately concluded there was no harm in it.

Her breath hitched when I put my hand on her lower back and lead her through a waltz.

Whoever had taught her to dance deserved to be shot. She always seemed to move a beat too soon or too late, and my gentle nudges only seemed to elicit gasps or blushes rather than improvement. Embarrassment, perhaps, at her lack of experience. Not that I blamed her for her dancing-master's inadequacies.

Though I suspected the way she kept staring into my eyes may have contributed to her poor foot placement.

"Wh-where did you learn to do that?"

"Fifty minutes a day, three times a week, between ages six and eleven," I said. "My mother was very keen on culture. Especially when it forced me to exercise."

We slid across the floor for a while. It was strangely relaxing. They'd dimmed the chandeliers, and Benitsubasa's eyes seemed to glitter just a bit in the orange light.

* * *

She didn't meet my eyes during the majority of our cab ride home. Instead, she fiddled with the gold chain around her neck. Her fingers drew the charm back and forth across the thin links. It was hypnotic.

"So...um, are you up for some sparring tonight?" Benitsubasa said.

"Eh? Oh, that..."

After much exasperation for all concerned, Benitsubasa had abandoned her quest to turn me into the second coming of John L. Sullivan. She had not given up entirely, though. While Benitsubasa specialized in fisticuffs, she also knew a bit about knives.

We soon discovered that the interminable fencing lessons I'd taken as a boy (at my mother's insistence; I was never one for unnecessary perspiration) had rubbed off on me. I was only _somewhat_ terrible with a knife rather than abysmal.

"All right," I said.

"...And dinner at a restaurant afterwards?" she said.

Normally I'd decline, but Benitsubasa had an MBI credit card. A meal wouldn't deplete the exchequer.

"If you like," I said.

Benitsubasa grinned from ear to ear. Whatever this restaurant was, she must have really liked the food.

"Thank you," she said.

I shrugged. Dinner wouldn't be so bad, I supposed.


	9. Chapter 9

Our dinner had gone well, if you're wondering.

The next few days had proceeded reasonably smoothly as well. Against all odds, I'd discovered a candle of learning amidst the modern morass of Shin Tokyo.

A very dim candle, to be sure: the man in question was a dribbly little fellow with greasy hair and a tendency to append too many honorifics. The look of bliss on his face when he'd called me _Lord_ El-Melloi (as if my father was already in his grave) had nearly driven me to impoliteness.

First generation magus, by the look of him. If that. His magecraft was crude enough that I'd tracked him down without much difficulty.

And yet, he'd owned a library. Books can absolve many failings.

Modern paper discards much of the craftsmanship that goes into a manuscript. The true connoisseur prefers vellum: translucent calfskin sheets, scraped, cleaned, bleached, and rubbed with pumice. Each page has a different character to it. One side is always smooth, the other rough from the hide's follicles after they've been scoured clean of hair. A competent magus could tell you which animal each page came from. Paper is disposable. Vellum has memories.

The man's books, as you've probably guessed, were written on vellum. Their covers smelled of old leather, of ink, of dust, and of other wonderful things. I say this without sarcasm.

One book in particular caught my interest. It told of eight golden ships. Each carried an unusual cargo. One wrecked before reaching its destination, but the remaining seven disgorged beings from some vaguely defined Otherworld; beautiful creatures who'd washed ashore in the world of humans. They took female shapes. The boldest among them enticed the local men with dances that whirled through the glades to the flicker of witchfire. In time, they bore sons.

I was reminded forcefully of the Irish creation myth, with its successive invasions. Like the People of the Hills, these creatures, too, had ultimately faded. Their blood dissipated into the mortals around them. They aged, and died.

And yet, they'd left traces for the intrepid. They'd hidden their treasures where few dared to seek. The greatest of these were jewels, which, if the rumors were true (and they seldom are), held the key to the Third True Magic: Materialization of the Soul.

They were called 'Jinki'.

The book slipped from my hands. It dropped with a dull thud, and dust swirled in the afternoon air. I scoured that library for seven more hours, but further mentions of the 'Jinki' eluded me.

At last, I returned home stymied...but not defeated. Yet.

Besides, I had other work that night.

* * *

The funny thing about minefields is that you don't notice you've stepped into one until you've gone too far.

I arrived at Izumo Inn half an hour late. Benitsubasa thwacked me lightly on the back of the head. I'd assembled our invisibility field a few days before, and Izumo Inn's landlady hadn't detected it yet. Considering her Sekirei-like prana signature and talent for killing my familiars, our targets presumably couldn't see it, either.

Izumo Inn shared many of the assumptions that seemed to undergird Japanese architecture in general (no pun intended). The roof consisted of clay tiles sloped gently upward at its rim. Load-bearing pillars held the thing up. Wooden slats ran up both floors' exterior walls, joined together like puzzle pieces, although what looked like cinderblocks covered the final few inches between the walls and the ground. The walls themselves seemed a bit more substantial than usual, though. I didn't get the impression that the building would remain standing if one knocked them down.

I questioned the intelligence of whoever had designed the fence, though. It was high, but raised a few inches off the grass, so that a curious passerby could see the inhabitants' feet.

Our target sat on the building's porch, staring at the sky. One of his Sekirei had curled up beside him. She wore a tiny pink skirt, a white gi-looking thing that barely concealed her (predictably) large breasts, and replicas of Benitsubasa's fighting gloves. The fighter-type, then. Musubi, Number 88.

Cicadas whined. Ashikabi and Sekirei stared at the moon together. It was nearly full.

Something occurred to me.

"Er, Benitsubasa?"

"What?"

"This Sekirei mating business...Mr. Sahashi has agreed to 'mate' with at least five different Sekirei, hasn't he?" I said.

"Yup."

"I imagine that jealousy might be an issue," I said.

"Yup."

I smirked. Perhaps it was the imminent danger, but I found myself returning once again to our private joke.

"How fortunate for you that I'm monogamous," I said.

"What, you mean in the sense that I'm stuck with you and there's no other Sekirei stupid enough to let you wing her? If so, then yeah. I'm very lucky you're 'monogamous'."

Benitsubasa's smile could have charmed an angry True Ancestor. I rolled my eyes. This did nothing to dissipate her expression.

"In fairness, Benitsubasa, you've...er, done your job quite well. Exemplary performance, in fact. I wouldn't have added a second Sekirei even if I'd had the opportunity."

This rather routine observation seemed to succeed where my displeased gestures had failed. Benitsubasa looked down, her hands forming a cage in front of her face. Her smile had become a tiny, fragile-looking thing.

However this girl's mind worked, I was clearly not privy to a few of its innermost mechanisms. Perhaps these occasionally incomprehensible episodes owed something to difference between Sekirei and human social norms?

"I...that is, thank you, Meriwether."

I adjusted the buttons on my coat. For a group of inanimate objects, they seemed oddly fidgety at times like these.

"Er...you're welcome, I suppose."

I kissed her - or, if you prefer, applied the Norito. We needed firepower. A Sekirei's efficiency in converting prana is a thing of wonder. Her body crackled with energy.

"And..." I said.

"...we're off," she finished.

The fighter in the pink miniskirt - Number 88, Musubi - barely had time to gasp. Benitsubasa leaped and slashed an elbow over Musubi's guard even as she continued toward Minato. A crack echoed. Musubi dropped. Unlike Benitsubasa's previous victims, though, this one actually staggered to her feet again.

My Sekirei swerved as if momentum didn't exist. In a fraction of a second, she pivoted around and swung her heel into Musubi's temple. Once again, Musubi collapsed. I noted sourly that she still had her "crest", but there was no time for that now.

"So glad to meet you in person, Mr. Sahashi."

Minato Sahashi, as I've noted elsewhere, was not an impressive specimen. He was a bit shorter than I was, with the same fluffed-but-unkempt hair that Higa had worn. Minato's clothing made him an easy target: white, long-sleeved shirts do not night camouflage make.

I grabbed him. Aside from his rather effeminate arm-flapping, he barely struggled. Benitsubasa tied him up and stuck a sock in his mouth.

We even helpfully left his Sekirei a note:

* * *

_To Mr. Minato Sahashi's Sekirei, Residing At Izumo Inn, A Certain Otherwise Anonymous Kidnapper Sends Greetings With As Much Politeness As Is Credible Under The Circumstances:_

_We have kidnapped Minato, and are preparing to inflict grievous bodily harm unless Kazehana and Tsukiumi (Nos. 03 and 09, respectively) attack Higa's compound **tonight** and terminate the Sekirei they find there. _

_Kindest Regards._

* * *

True, it _technically _violated the rules of the Sekirei Plan to harm an Ashikabi. That 'technically', though, was the crux of the matter. MBI had tolerated (or overlooked) blackmail, kidnapping, and worse from Higa. My own scheme was a drop in the bucket.

..._If _Minato's Sekirei involved the Disciplinary Squad in the first place, that is. They wouldn't. I'd seen enough of Karasuba to know that she killed people on both sides. Minato's Sekirei wouldn't expose him to friendly fire if they could help it. And as long as Higa's 'hacker' Sekirei kept MBI's satellites blind, the Disciplinary Squad wouldn't discover my scheme on their own. Higa wouldn't have time to discover his mistake. And again, I doubted that Minato's Sekirei would tell him.

Oh, the plan had flaws, to be sure. I just hoped that the short timetable would prevent my opponents from discovering them. If they attacked Higa tonight as I'd instructed...

I dashed alongside my Sekirei through the city. Minato groaned. Benitsubasa elbowed him in the stomach.

"So explain _how_ exactly this doesn't violate our agreement with Higa?" Benitubasa said.

Despite my burning legs, I smirked.

"I agreed to eliminate Minato's two single numbers. The contract said nothing about collateral damage to Higa. I can't think of a better way to terminate a Sekirei than to force her into the teeth of Higa's prepared defenses without a Norito...can you?"

Benitsubasa's smile matched my own.

"And if Minato's single numbers _happen_ to take out some of Higa's Sekirei along the way..." she said.

I gave a melodramatic sniffle.

"...Regrettable, my dear Benitsubasa. Most regrettable."

She giggled (likely from the excitement, since my humor is questionable at the best of times), and I found myself laughing too. Not cackling, mind, but a staid, dignified chuckle. It was the first time I could recall that we'd shared such a moment.

* * *

My laughter faded when we entered our home.

Benitsubasa gasped when she saw the computer, and then growled. I dumped Minato on the floor.

"What is it?" I said.

"Look."

Benitsubasa pointed at the computer screen. It delivered the following monstrosity of a message, contained in a blinking box:

[HikkiPerv2]: TROLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL check this out: [meriwethergetsp0wnd-mbivid]

[HikkiPerv2]: LAWL n00b got Yomi'd

"What on Earth-"

"Matsu," Benitsubasa said. "Must be Matsu. Minato has a brain-type Sekirei of his own."

"A computer expert, you mean?"

"Yeah."

The "-mbivid" phrase was underlined and highlighted in blue, which Benitsubasa informed me meant it was a 'link'. She clicked on it.

We were treated to a short film. In crystal clarity, Yomi tore into my side with her scythe. Blood splattered. When Yomi hit me in the jaw, the film's editor had made sure to render my facial distortion in slow motion. For the second time that week, I also saw myself casting what, in retrospect, was a fairly impressive five-count water spell. Though my facial expression looked more idiotic with each viewing.

The editor had synchronized the entire film of my encounter with Yomi to Benny Hill music. My fists clenched before I mastered myself.

"Wait," said Benitsubasa. "You know who Benny Hill is?"

"Of _course_ I know who Benny Hill is!" I snapped. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Um...no reason."

In point of fact, an acquaintance had convinced me (read: kidnapped) to watch a few videocassettes with her when I was a boy. My parents were never informed. This was just as well. They would not have been amused. (Neither was I, at the time. Mr. Hill seemed to find nudity funny).

"How does this computer thing work again?" I said.

"It's like...uh...an instant letter," Benitsubasa said. "You type a message, click 'enter', and it goes to the other person."

"So that thing with brackets represents Matsu's assumed name?"

"Basically, yeah."

"And the other name is yours?"

"Yup."

I gritted my teeth and squished into the seat beside her. She felt very warm all of the sudden. Her face had flushed, at any rate. I didn't have much experience with keyboards, but the two-finger-at-a-time style that my father had taught me on our typewriter served me well enough.

[TeamCrimsonSekirei]: Dear Impertinent Opponent, How did you get that footage? How did you get my name, for that matter? Also, your spelling and taste in British comedy are both execrable. Sincerely, Meriwether.

[HikkiPerv2]: U mad?

[TeamCrimsonSekirei]: Dear Impertinent Opponent, My associate informs me that your use of "U" is actually a sad attempt to say "you" humorously, and not further evidence of illiteracy. In any event, how did you get that footage? Sincerely, Meriwether

Matsu's next response gave me a cold feeling in my stomach.

[HikkiPerv2]: Dear Mr. Wizard (a.k.a. Meriwether Archibald El-Melloi): Matsu knows a lot about your family. A LOT. Your daddy - Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, who for some reason has an LL.M. in American tax law without a law degree - hides his information as if he's living in a 90s time warp. Matsu knows all about your family's stock of stolen IDs, social security numbers, credit cards, and laundered money in the Cayman Islands. She's tracked your money through the US and Caribbean real estate companies your mother set up. She even knows all about the ~mysteeerious~ law firm that only works for Daddy El-Melloi. Matsu also finds it interesting that your family occasionally uses some of its tax write-offs to buy industrial quantities of mercury. Oh, yeah, and the magic thing.

Benitsubasa and I stared for several seconds.

"Well...this could be bad," I said. "Also, she refers to herself in the third person."

[HikkiPerv2]: So here's the deal, Mr. Wizard. U will give us Minato (notice the bad spelling, O NOES!), and we won't publish any of this stuff on teh internetz. De~eal?

I realized that I'd been grinding my teeth in a rather undignified manner. Nor had my headache improved.

Benitsubasa bit her lip.

"Maybe...I mean, I don't like giving up, but if this is going to hurt your family-"

"No," I said. "We're _not_ giving up. I have a contract with Higa."

The consequences of backing out on said agreement were...disturbing. I grabbed the keyboard and started typing.

[TeamCrimsonSekirei]: Matsu, is it? I am finished playing with you. Here is my revised offer. You will attack Higa tonight as we ordered, or we'll kill Minato. If you release any of that information, we'll _still _kill Minato, but I'll HARVEST THE FRAGMENTS OF HIS SOUL INTO AN ANIMAL FAMILIAR. Do I make myself clear?

A long silence followed. The cursor blinked.

Blinked.

Blinked.

Blinked.

[HikkiPerv2]: This is Kazehana. Number 03. We'll do what you say if you let Minato go. And once this 'Sekirei Plan' is over, I intend to personally splatter you across half of Shin Tokyo.

[TeamCrimsonSekirei]: Pleasure doing business with you.

The string of expletives that followed added nothing to the substance of the conversation, so we turned the computer off.

* * *

Minato shuddered on the floor, his eyes bulging. I spared him a glance. To his credit, he met my eyes without looking away.

"Oh, stop cowering. I probably wouldn't kill you anyway," I said. "Too much trouble."

I sighed and forced my shoulders to loosen. The sofa seemed a good place to lie down, so I did. I realized that I was shaking again. As I tried to fight down a sensation of nausea, I felt a delicate pair of hands kneading my neck and back.

"Eh? Oh, it's you..."

Benitsubasa leaned next to me. Her breaths felt warm and slightly moist on my earlobe.

"Remember how you wanted to 'research' my Norito?" she said.

I had, in fact, proposed tracking Benitsubasa's prana flows during Noritos several weeks ago. Benitsubasa had refused on the grounds that it would be too "clinical", whatever that had meant.

"...Er...yes..."

"Well, I'm in the mood now, Meriwether."

I rubbed my forehead and looked up. Yes, she seemed serious. I waved my hand toward the bound figure on the chair.

"We just kidnapped another Ashikabi and knocked his Sekirei unconscious. I hardly see-"

Benitsubasa grinned as her breaths became faster.

"That's _exactly_ why I'm in the mood."

I stopped and considered. As per usual, I hadn't the foggiest idea why she'd chosen this _particular_ moment for Norito research, her unhelpful 'explanation' notwithstanding. On the other hand, this might be my only opportunity to study her Norito's finer workings. Whatever Benitsubasa's objections to "clinical" research in the past (and really, what research _wasn't _clinical?), she seemed to have waived them for the night. I'd be a fool to pass up the opportunity.

Besides, the house was invisible. Even if intruders could see it, my bounded fields would warn me if they entered.

"Well, if you insist," I said. "I'll be in the workshop presently. You know the way in, I trust?"

Benitsubasa's head bounced up and down like one of those bobble-headed dolls. She practically skipped upstairs.

"...And what on earth was _that_ about?" I wondered aloud.

Minato stared at me, his mouth open. Partly because of the sock, but the point stands. It was an expression somewhat akin to an astronomer who had just discovered that the moon was, in fact, made of green cheese. (It's actually made of eldritch malevolence, but that's neither here nor there).

I pulled the sock out of his mouth.

"Well, what is it?" I said.

"Y'know, I live with a bunch of scantily dressed alien women," he said.

"So I've noticed."

"They grope me. They flash me. One of them tried to jump me in the bath. They mud-wrestle each other in bikinis while I watch...And despite all that, I didn't realize that 'Winging' was a mating ritual for at least month. But you know something?"

I rolled my eyes.

"No, Mr. Sahashi. Please enlighten me."

"Somehow, I'm _still_ less oblivious than you."

Naturally, I took umbrage at the insult, but another, weightier matter practically screamed for clarification.

"Wait, so you allow your Sekirei to play in the _mud_? In _public_?"

Minato leaned back.

"Um...forget I said anything."

I began to wonder whether I should do a favor for Minato's Sekirei and kill him anyway. From what he'd described, Izumo House sounded like an unhygienic cross between a sideshow attraction and a brothel.

And this with a Sekirei in the house who couldn't have been more than twelve. Corruption of minors was the least of it.

"Does this country even _have _habitability codes?" I said.

"Could you stick the sock back in my mouth now, please?"

As soon as I concluded my business with Kazehana and Tsukiumi, the local health inspectors were going to be paying a visit to Maison Izumo.

With these pleasant thoughts of urban renewal dancing in my head, I trudged up the steps. More research. At last, something _sane_ after the maelstrom of topsy-turvydom that the Sekirei Plan had unleashed into my life. I opened the door to my workshop.

Benitsubasa grabbed my collar and practically yanked me inside.


	10. Chapter 10

I had been applying Noritos to Benitsubasa for the previous fifteen minutes, and was growing increasingly disturbed by the results.

Benitsubasa lay on a padded table. Fortunately, she'd at least had the foresight to dress in a T-shirt and cotton shorts. I say this because she was covered in sweat, so much so that her hair stuck to her forehead. Her face was a luminescent red. I ran my hand across her legs, tracing the prana flows. The skin had goosebumps.

This called for another note.

_Subject Sekirei appears to be experiencing an allergic reaction to prolonged Norito exposure. Skin is flushed. Breathing shallow. Prana flows seem to center around the Sekirei "crest" on the back of Subject's neck._

I kissed her again. The Norito had barely concluded when Benitsubasa grabbed the back of my head and shoved her tongue down my throat. It was slippery, warm, and more than a little unnerving. She moaned. With some difficulty, I managed to pry her off. Her eyes had taken a dazed, glassy appearance.

_Subject Sekirei's tongue appears to have lost fine motor control. Pupils dilated. Prana flows continue to center on the crest. Vocalizations suggest discomfort._

I turned her over and lifted her T-shirt, tracing the prana across her back. Benitsubasa was practically whimpering now.

_Vocalizations indicate that Subject's discomfort levels have increased. Will monitor closely. Do not wish harm to come to subject._

"Er, Bentisubasa, are you alrigh-Urk!"

She grabbed me. Once again, I felt her tongue probing my mouth. Breaking away proved difficult. Her hands were gripping my hips, presumably to stabilize herself. She squirmed and writhed. Somehow, I twisted my arm toward the counter and grabbed my notebook. I began scribbling furiously over her shoulder.

_In the Subject's zeal for assisting me with my research, I fear that she has taken one Norito too many. Vocalizations have reached a fevered pitch. She has locked lips with me. Body temperature very high. Skin red. Breathing rate - OH NO OH NO OH NO - She's spasming - she may have gone into seizures - why am I still writing - I need to do some-_

I peeled myself off Benitsubasa's lips and chanted a quick Aria. Fortunately, the panic in my voice did not significantly affect the spell.

Fifty gallons of water drenched us.

"EEEEEK!"

When I'd dried my eyes, I was greeted by the sight of Benitsubasa glaring at me. Her soaked T-shirt and shorts clung to her body. Water dripped from her hair. Her teeth were chattering. I congratulated myself on my choice of ice water, since it seemed to have brought her back to her senses.

She was all right, then. I released the breath I'd been holding.

"M-m-m-mERIWETHER! Wh-what d-d-did y-you d-DO?"

I detected an undertone of hostility.

"You were clearly suffering from some sort of severe allergic reaction, so I felt that the-"

CRASH!

It took me a moment to realize that Benitsubasa had just lobbed my tea mug at the wall.

"_YOU_ are the stupidest man on _EARTH_, and I hope you _DIE ALONE_!"

"Also, your Norito overdose appears to have induced increased levels of aggression-"

Benitsubasa's scream of rage convinced me that perhaps she was best left alone until the effects wore off. I ran for the door and closed it behind me. As I descended the stairs, I tried to ignore the sound of tearing metal and broken glass issuing from my workshop.

I sank into the living room's sofa again. Minato was staring at me with a look I couldn't quite place.

He spat out his gag.

"Um, Meriwether?"

"What?" I said.

"You grew up pretty, um, sheltered, didn't you?"

"I dissected my first cadaver at five."

"That's...not what I meant."

I put the gag back into Minato's mouth.

* * *

I'd instructed Minato's Sekirei not to target Higa's hacker, since I still needed her to delete MBI's files after I "fulfilled" my end of the pact with Higa. The rest were fair game.

Benitsubasa had booted up the computer again so that our new allies could send us updates. She'd also changed back into her black shorts and fighting top. Her hair was still wet, though, and she shot me glares from time to time.

One other detail demanded my attention before the festivities began.

I knew relatively little about Japan, and even less about its legacy of obscure encounters with inhuman races. The Magus Killer's daughter knew more. We were even on speaking terms.

* * *

_Dear Ilyasviel,_

_My apologies for the informality, but time is short. How much do you know the 'Jinki'? I'm abroad, you see. I searched a first-generation magus's library and found a heavily romanticized account, but couldn't discover anything else. _

_These things can supposedly manifest the Third Magic, if that helps._

_Sincerely,_

_Meriwether Archibald, El-Melloi Heir Apparent._

* * *

A white-bellied bird with black feathers on its skull and an orange, narrow beak hopped onto my shoulder. Unlike most of my familiars, I'd brought him specially from the Clock Tower. Oh, I grant you that he wasn't a particularly _large _specimen compared to the hawks, owls, and ravens that many magi favor, but one cannot find a better messenger than the Common Tern. Few birds can migrate thousands of miles. Fewer still can sleep on the wing. And this _without_ magecraft enhancements, mind.

I rolled the message up and stuffed it into a metal satchel on the bird's neck. My familiar gave its distinctive _"tarr_" call and preened while I plied it with scraps of uncooked bacon. It had a _long_ trip, after all.

"Take this to the Einzbern castle," I said. "The bounded fields should recognize my prana signature and let you through."

It fluffed its feathers a few times, and then took off.

I closed my eyes and focused on my other familiars. Minato's Sekirei were close to Higa now.

My familiars first noticed Minato's Sekirei as lanky shadows cast by streetlamps. I'm told that Japanese aesthetes favor minor flaws to highlight beauty: withered cherry blossoms alongside fresh ones, or clouds obscuring a starry sky. If so, then that night's very perfection marred itself. The moon floated in a sky free of clouds.

Higa's compound rose from the concrete courtyard. Unobstructed, the moonlight glinted on black glass.

The Sekirei breathed quickly, speaking in whispers. I counted four:

Homura, the suspiciously feminine-looking male, had dressed in a long black coat and a black mask that covered his mouth. This "disguise" did not cover his white hair, however. Flames flickered on his fingertips. He was a single number, Zero-Six if recollection served. How this would translate into combat was another matter, though, since I was unsure whether Minato had winged him. If not, his talents wouldn't manifest fully.

Beside him stood Kazehana. She, too, was a single number. Like the Sekirei I'd poisoned at Mikogami's - and unlike Homura, incidentally - she'd seen real combat. Or so Benitsubasa informed me. Kazehana ran a hand through her long black hair, but omitted the fidgets and jitters that afflicted the others. She wore a purple miniskirt and open-chested dress that must have repelled the cold about as well as a nylon napkin. For all that, though, she didn't shiver. Perhaps the nigh-tumorous mammary growths on her chest provided extra insulation. A bell around her ankle danced, but did not chime. She was a wind user, so I suppose this made sense.

Tsukiumi, Minato's second (or third) single number, had apparently taken Kazehana's depraved taste in clothing as a challenge rather than the assault on public morality that it so clearly was. Her dress vaguely resembled a French maid's uniform, except that it covered less than most swimsuits. Every breeze revealed her underwear. And her bust - yes, you _knew _I was coming to that, didn't you? - must have avoided spilling out of its inadequate coverings from sheer grim willpower. She also seemed to have a penchant for speaking Shakespearean English, and poorly.

Musubi I've already described elsewhere. Aside from the swollen purple mass on her cheek from Benitsubasa's elbow, her appearance had not changed.

On the bright side, they'd at least shown the decency to leave the youngest plant Sekirei behind. Doubtless they'd stuck her in a mud puddle somewhere with a bikini and a packet of cigarettes.

I am informed, from time to time, that I seem to delight in aggravating people. Whatever the truth of the matter subjectively, that night was no exception.

I spoke to Tsukiumi through my (slightly modified) familiar. They already knew about them, anyway. Well, Matsu and Kazehana did.

"You know, as a water user myself, I'm rather looking forward to seeing you fight," I said.

Tsukiumi started. She pointed at my pigeon with a somewhat unsteady hand, her mouth open. Finally, though, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, yes," I said. "And I can speak through animals, too."

Tsukiumi tossed her hair back and crossed her arms under her chest. She was blonde, and possessed a combination of volume and waviness that might have been attractive save for her questionable choice in wardrobe. Considering my familiar's size, Tsukiumi found it a simple matter to look down her dainty nose at me.

"Thou art a foul and treacherous Ashikabi, and thy water spell against Yomi was but a child's trifle, _monkey_."

"'You' and 'your'," I said.

"_What_ didst thou say?"

"'You' and 'your' are the appropriate pronouns when addressing a loathed adversary of superior social rank," I said. " 'Thou' and 'thy' are actually informal. Which, incidentally, is why nobody could stand the early Quakers. In any case, I'll thank you not to butcher Queen Bess's English any further."

Tsukiumi's jaw dropped. Her arms stiffened at her sides and balled into fists.

"Thy _insolence_ is matched only by thy-"

"'_Your_' insolence."

"But-"

"Informal."

"But they taught me-"

"Incorrectly, clearly."

"How _dare _you-"

"Perfect."

Alas, a crash of glass interrupted this nascent Elizabethan idyll before it could proceed to Stratfordians versus Marlovians.

* * *

Kazehana's whirlwind tore off the sides of Higa's compound. Shards scattered on concrete. Metal beams groaned, and then screamed. Minato's Sekirei flew into the graps, and I knew better than to send my familiars after them.

Thus, I can only recount the battle peripherally, as my observations were necessarily limited. My familiars heard from within that building the clash of metal, the crack of Sai's whips, and the angry whine of Oriha's bladed discs. Each fell silent in turn. Crunches, cracks and crumbling attested to inhumanly strong bodies colliding with architecture.

A column of flame blasted from the seventeenth story. All around it, molten glass ran down the walls. One of the floors flooded. Water poured from the open side, and then , unable to sate itself, broke the remaining glass with a series of explosive _plinks_.

And finally, the sounds of battle dimmed. I waited.

Kazehana staggered out.

She was biting her lip, and I noted a long line of moisture glistening on her side. Every time she leaned on her right leg, she hesitated. Her inhalations when she placed weight on the foot were both sharp and suppressed.

She looked at my familiar.

"We've done your dirty work. Let my Ashikabi go."

"Where are Minato's other Sekirei?" I said.

Her jaw tightened.

"Where do you _think_ they are?"

I nodded, and unconsciously transmitted the gesture to the bird as well. Wonderful. And yet...

"I've changed the deal," I said. "I'm afraid our bargaining positions haven't changed. I still have your Ashikabi. Now then, Kazehana...I've made a deal with Higa for your termination. Be so good as to eliminate yourself for me, or Minato dies."

A moment passed. I couldn't make out much in the gloom, but she seemed to be shaking. And not, I suspected, with fear. The creature before me no longer resembled the harlot who had wobbled home from the bars with Uzume at three in the morning. Her prana flared.

It isn't often that I find myself at a loss, let alone overwhelmed. Yet that surge of energy so close to my familiar felt like an electric shock. The darkness seemed to thicken around her in an effect that reminded me of nothing so much as a bounded field. Wind screamed through the building's torn framework. The air had become a frigid blast.

My familiar felt a nick on its neck. And another. Frozen air bit its skin, tore its feathers.

_GET OUT! GET OUT!_

Yet despite the pain, despite the way that familiar contracts were _supposed_ to work, my consciousness felt mired in mud. Impossibly, Kazehana's prana signature continued to expand. My mind stayed riveted within my familiar.

Kazehana's voice carried over the wind's howl.

"I didn't want to take this risk," she said. "I really didn't. But _you_...you've left me no choice, _Lord_ El-Melloi. We're contacting the Disciplinary Squad. And if you hurt Minato, you'd better be looking forward to _weeks _of agony from Karasuba. Minato's mother is one of her supervisors."

"...Wait, _what_?"

Pain lanced through every nerve. Kazehana's winds tore my familiar joint from joint. Its vision went black.

The pain remained.

"AAAAGH!"

I must have been writhing around on the floor for a while before I noticed Benitsubasa's arms around me. The chair had overturned. We were rocking back and forth. Or rather, she was rocking me.

Strange to say, Benitsubasa's embrace reminded me of my mother, somehow. As a boy, I'd broken into my father's workshop. Something unwholesome had noticed me, and I'd awakened hours later in my mother's arms. I still don't remember what exactly happened in that workshop (and my parents never told me), but the aftermath has stayed with me all my life. Cozy, gentle arms.

She was not an entirely cold woman, my mother.

"B-Benitsubasa...?"

"Shhh...it's okay..."

Something blinked out of my mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue that you can't quite remember. I felt it again. And again.

I stretched out my consciousness to my familiars, only to find blank space. And the line of inoperative familiars lead up to...

"Norito," I said. "Quickly."

Benitsubasa must have seen the look on my face, since I felt her tense. We kissed. Light wings flared from her back. I shook my arms, hoping that the remaining stiffness would flush itself out before-

How had they figured it out so quickly? Unless they were killing _every_ bird in their path, I didn't see...

...More importantly, how had they _found_ me?

The far wall exploded. Flames incinerated wood and melted stone. They crawled up the mantelpiece like fingers, caressing it into charcoal and molten goop. Yet they curved away from our prisoner. My robe fluttered as oxygen rushed in to feed the fire.

A spindly silhouette stood at the center of the inferno.

It walked slowly, head tilted up. Poised. Collected. Its hands rested in the pockets of a long coat. The figure's posture seemed almost feminine. Indeed, if not for Kazehana's previous _assurance _that he'd perished against Higa, I could have sworn that this fire-wielding, black-garbed dandy looked exactly like Homura.

"Benitsubasa, grab Minato. We have trouble."

Kazehana's miniature tornado only served to emphasize this point when it tore off the chimney. But by then, we were already scrambling for my workshop.


	11. Chapter 11

_"What's going on?"_

I admit that Benitsubasa's high-pitched question had been running through my mind as well. Somehow, Homura had evaded my notice after his battle with Higa. But beyond that...

A gout of flame enveloped the stairs. I reinforced my legs and jumped to the second floor. My body dangled there for a moment before I levered myself up.

First possibility: Matsu had somehow checked her "spy satellites" for archival footage of houses that had vanished overnight. In my defense, I hadn't considered science fiction when planning my (rudimentary) field.

A fire cloud chased me through the hall. Homura followed on its heels. I pointed through the torn-out wall at Kazehana.

"Hold her off!"

Benitsubasa nodded.

She set her jaw and raced at Kazehana, who was waiting for her in the yard. Without hesitation. Without an apparent survival instinct. Without even the slightest doubt that her Ashikabi - the same Ashikabi who had just provoked an attack by Minato's two Single Numbers - might not know what he was doing.

...So very, very unlike unlike magi, these Sekirei.

I veered around the corner and into my lab. Homura followed, an emaciated-looking figure garbed in black. A wraith surrounded by a halo of fire.

Second possibility: Matsu could somehow track people through their connections to the Internet.

Without even chanting an Aria, Homura unleashed a burning cloud that Cornelius Alba would have admired. Glass jars melted and shattered. I covered my face. My cloak's fabric barely withstood the ensuing inferno.

One of the jars exploded. Sizzling yellow globs steamed on Homura's clothing. And then, they began eating through it.

"AAaah!"

He tore off his coat. The Liquor Alkahest had bored a hole roughly the width of a penny into his skin. I could see his muscles move and re-knit. He growled and shot a fourth blast. I ducked behind a table. Another explosion shook the room.

I pointed at the prominent, _obvious_ sign on the door:

WARNING - DANGEROUS CHEMICALS.

"Can't you _READ_?" I shouted.

The ignoramus paused for only a moment. At least this time, he used a narrow jet instead of a cloud.

"_Flame snake!_"

"_Drink twice, and the river changes."_

A watery shield appeared before me. It vanished just as quickly. Steam scalded by face, but it had served its purpose. I'd already rolled away. I poured prana into a healing spell. My face itched from the combination of sweat, soot, and rebuilding skin.

Smoke clogged my throat and stung my eyes.

Fire scorched the floor where I'd been a moment ago. Sparks wriggled across the woodgrains like worms. I ducked behind another table. Homura roasted it. I chanted an Aria. A gust of wind sent the burning table flying at Homura. It caught him in the stomach, and he thudded against the wall.

When he looked up again, I noticed that his mask had come off. This was not an improvement, since it revealed snarling lips.

Hypothesis: Homura was as vulnerable to his own fire as anybody else.

I smirked. The gesture paid off; Homura shot flames at my head. It was fast, but sputtered a bit.

_Sailor, Traveler, and Miller  
Weather's Messenger, Cloud's Shepherd_

My circuits burned. Not the most warlike of Arias, but the wind spell did its work. A gust of air swept through the room. Homura's fire blew back into his face like cigarette smoke on a windy day. And yet there he was, untouched. The fire swerved around him.

Hypothesis: Not confirmed.

FWOOSH!

I reinforced my body and pulled my coat over my face. It still hurt. Excruciatingly. Imagine yourself trapped in a steel cylinder in a desert during midday. I screamed. Charred pieces of my coat dropped off. Some of them peeled scraps of skin off with them.

I crawled for the cabinet. My fingers closed around a bottle. They were almost shaking too hard to unstopper it, but I managed somehow.

I hacked. Soot and blood mixed with saliva.

Golden liquid oozed from the bottle. A stain spread on the floor, and became a puddle. It bubbled. A mouth formed. Its smile revealed fangs.

_"Seek,"_ I whispered.

It peeled itself off the floor with a wet _slorp_ and flew at Homura. He froze and stared. Almost long enough.

Almost.

With a hiss, the liquid sizzled and became golden steam. Yet this did not dissipate its momentum. Homura fell back, clutching his eyes. Red sores spread across his face. I staggered to my feet and grabbed another bottle.

"Try putting _this _out."

I tossed the glass and turned away.

It broke. Light filled the workshop, like burning phosphorous. The vapor flared into white fire. I choked as the blaze sucked the remaining air out of the room, leaving my lungs empty. Wind howled.

The moment passed. I opened my eyes.

Homura stood before me scarred and smoking. But he stood nonetheless. Reflections danced in his eyes.

A blazing orb collected in his hand. The air around it distorted and warped with the haze. Anything that hadn't been burning already now ignited. I found myself pouring my last reserves of prana into a combination of wind, water, and healing spells to resist the second-hand heat. Never mind deflecting the thing.

I dropped my shield. Every nerve in my body felt like I'd thrown myself on a bonfire, but I needed the prana.

_"Shatter."_

Aside from the phial in my pocket, the remaining containers - at least, those that hadn't become molten - smashed into glittering powder. Some of the fragments must have cut Homura, since the orb flickered for a moment. A happy side effect, but not my main purpose.

_"Deconstruct."_

Substances solid, liquid and gaseous rushed to comply. Green fluid crawled up the pillars, devouring as it went. Black sludge ignited on the walls. Grayish, dull pellets rolled through a hole in the floor and headed for the foundation. A series of _bangs _rattled the house.

Homura's eyes widened.

I reinforced my legs and crashed through the window. The house shuddered, and then it collapsed. My home crumbled in a landslide of dust, fire, and rubble.

* * *

I stood and watched for perhaps half a minute, but only heard crackling and the shifting of wreckage. I sank to my knees, wheezed, and vomited.

I must have knelt there for another minute at least, retching my guts out as I tried to cough up the smoke (and who knows what other fumes) from my lungs. My body shuddered with each empty expectoration. My circuits were almost depleted. Everything felt hollow, empty, and sandpapered.

I heard sobs coming from somewhere. It took a moment to realize that they were coming from me whenever I exhaled.

Half my skin seemed like it had been cooked. I looked at my hand, and saw burn scars and pus. Even the comparatively untouched patches felt a few orders of magnitude beyond my worst sunburn. (A sunburn so bad, I might add, that I'd not gone to the beach since). My robe smoked. It must have absorbed the brunt of the fire. Soot covered it, and whatever hadn't blackened was burned off.

Homura emerged from the rubble.

He stumbled, but I doubted he'd take long to recover.

I am not particularly proud to note that my first instinct was to lie down and let him kill me, but there it is. I tried to croak _"go ahead"_, and ended up with a gurgle. Had I been a philosopher, I might have laughed at the situation's absurdity. Alas, philosophers do not often find themselves half-dead on battlefields. Nor, I suspect, would many remain philosophical under those circumstances.

That was when I saw Benitsubasa.

Sekirei, it has always seemed to me, share human weaknesses only in small proportions. Whatever Benitsubasa might opine on the matter, they have often reminded me of nothing so much as young adults. 'Teenagers', if you prefer.

I do not refer solely to the hormonal imbalance. The distortion goes deeper: a certain idealism, a lack of proportion; the young person's sense of indestructibility. Above all, absolute conviction. Even in humans, confidence dances a fine minuet between naivete and arrogance. The Sekirei have no need for either word, since their identity as a species subsumes both.

Nor do they need a word for loyalty.

Benitsubasa fought an adversary who hovered twenty feet above her. Every charge met with a whirlwind. Benitsubasa moved in a pink blur. And yet. She leaped, and Kazehana dodged each time. Turf flew from the ground in chunks, as if torn by fast-moving caterpillar treads.

The wind hurled Benitsubasa into a tree. Its trunk cracked. Leaves fluttered to the ground, casting shadows that looked like black butterflies. Benitsubasa wiped the blood from her mouth and launched herself forward again.

Whips of wind sliced furrows in the ground. Half of Benitsubasa's jumps aborted before they began as she had to dance aside. The other half just missed. One of Kazehanasa's wind razors opened Benitsubasa's cheek. My Sekirei kept going. More blood dripped.

I caught the briefest pause. Hesitation. I wondered what it was, and then realized that she'd seen me.

"Run, Meriwether!"

_Hold her off_, I'd said earlier. And that little fool was going to sacrifice herself for me.

Stupid. Incredibly stupid. It didn't make _sense_. Just let Kazehana terminate you, and wait until the Sekirei Plan ends. Forget your Ashikabi. They'll revive you afterward.

But no. Instead, Benitsubasa had chosen to annoy a woman who was clearly out for blood, risking a Level 5 termination in the process. And for what? Perhaps - just perhaps - I could understand doing it for love. But this?

A biological imperative to protect one's Ashikabi?

The stupid girl didn't even _like_ me very much.

Childishly, perhaps, I found the unfairness troubling. And for some reason, I noted that I'd developed a more than ordinary hatred for the purple harlot cutting Benitsubasa to ribbons.

I attribute what came next to sheer contrariness stemming from my impending death. There was no bravery in the act. Definitely no foresight.

I forced the last prana through my circuits with one order: _Heal_. And then, long before the repair process had concluded, I dashed at a certain young man who sat on my lawn clad in jeans, a long white shirt, and socks. And I did it without reinforcement.

I am not a prizefighter by either inclination or training, Benitsubasa's attempts notwithstanding.

Consequently, my collision with Minato scraped my robe across peeling skin, sending me into fresh agony. Minato flopped over, with me uppermost. I grabbed his neck and plunged the other into my coat, fumbling for my dagger.

And then, Minato did the first masculine thing I'd ever observed from him: he punched me in the face.

Admittedly, this statement comes with a few qualifiers. It was more of a slap than a punch. His disturbingly long fingernails did most of the damage. He yelped _ouch_ at almost the same moment that I did. Nor did his rubbing his hand afterward escape my notice.

And yet, for all that, it _stung_. My ear whistled a bit, and I felt a sense of vertigo. Just enough that he shoved me away.

"Get _off _of me!" he said.

I grabbed his shirt.

"Oh, I don't _think _so."

We rolled onto the grass in a tangle. Adrenaline that I didn't know I still possessed pumped through my body for one final task.

Minato bit my finger. I retaliated by seizing a healthy portion of that unkempt, slovenly mop of his and pulling for all I was worth. Minato kneed me in the groin (well, it was more of a nudge, but it hurt a bit). I tweaked his nose. He slapped me again. I poked him in the eye.

This state of affairs continued until I'd managed to retrieve my knife and put it to his throat.

My hand must have been shaking harder than I'd initially believed, since the tip drew a zigzag of blood on his neck. It resembled a particularly vicious shaving cut.

I looked at Homura. He'd almost arrived at my position by now, his hand open and aimed at me. Fire crackled in his palm. I noted with some satisfaction that he was limping.

I wheezed.

"Pull...Kazehana...'way...fr'm...Benits'a...or...kill...Min-_urk!_"

I leaned forward and coughed, making sure to keep the knife at Minato's throat. He flinched. As if I cared. Phlegm dripped from my nose onto his shirt.

Homura seemed to have divined the gist of it, though. He called to Kazehana. The winds' howling stopped, and I realized for the first time that Tsukiumi and Musubi must really have been terminated. There was no way that they would have avoided this battle.

"So now what?" Homura said.

"Now? Everybody stops fighting, and MBI gets its bone."

* * *

We all turned. Or, rather, Kazehana and Homura turned. Benitsubasa just stood there, wavering like a drunk sea captain. I stayed close to Minato.

Regardless, we all saw Karasuba. She wore the same miniskirt and stockings that I'd noticed earlier, but her companions did not share her ensemble. The one on the right I knew. I may not have seen Haihane before that moment, but Benitsubasa's previous description - "a blue-haired Sekirei swaddled in bandages with knives on her fingers "- narrowed the field somewhat. She nodded to Benitsubasa, who did not reciprocate.

The other I couldn't place. She had closed her (yes, you know what's coming, don't you?) dress's overflowing bustline with chains. Had it not been for my transformation into barbecued meat, I might have even commented on the impropriety of it all. As it was, I spewed again on Minato instead.

Karasuba's sleepy eyes may not have widened, but her voice's lilt carried the sentiment just the same. And she was grinning, confound her.

"Well, well, Merry. I'll say this much: You sure know how to host a party..."

Her voice hardened.

"Let Minato up."

Benitsubasa wouldn't have lasted a moment once Minato was released, so I stayed right where I was. I gestured at my Sekirei. Karasuba's sword sheath clicked as she flicked open the latch. Evidently, I'd miscalculated. So...wait to die, then.

She paused, though.

"The Director wishes to remind all parties that there must be no...unpleasantness between Ashikabis. I _recommend_ -" her prana flared, "- that everyone retire for the night."

Mutters of agreement.

I released my hold on Minato and dropped face-first into the grass. He rolled me off of him. I didn't complain.

Karasuba's smile broadened.

"Naturally, MBI's recovery teams intend to be _very_ helpful in...restoring...your accommodations, Mr. _El-Melloi_."

As if on cue, I heard the thrum of helicopters approaching. Black, awkward things like obese wasps.

At another time, I might have fretted about my workshop - what remained of it, anyway - falling into the hands of a corporation that had already stolen and reversed-engineered Sekirei technology. I might have worried that this corporation just might have the power to defend itself against the Clock Tower, not to mention connections to spare. I might even have reflected that I was probably going to be dead soon. If the Plan didn't kill me, Lady Barthomeloi would.

Indeed, a whole host of thoughts might have occurred to me as I watched the burning wreckage of my former home: my chemicals were gone, save for the phial of poison in my coat. My familiars were gone. My notes were gone. My archive of letters to my father were gone. My books about magecraft...would probably survive the fire, so MBI would get them. I had no base of operations. Once Karasuba's protection evaporated in a day or two, Minato's Sekirei could strike at will through Shin Tokyo. Matsu and Higa could both track me with spy satellites. And so on.

But at that moment, only two thoughts percolated through my consciousness.

Point the first: Benitsubasa was alive and safe for now.

Point the second: I needed a nap.

A few seconds later, I sank into the lawn and tried to take the second observation to heart.

(It didn't work.)


	12. Chapter 12

Benitsubasa and I sat on the side of the road, leaning against each other. We'd stayed in roughly this position for the past several hours. Daylight from the rising sun prickled my eyes. Police sirens whined.

MBI's people had already set up a cordon of yellow plastic around my former home. Smoke still rose from the pile of black-and-gray ash; my chemicals had been quite thorough. Water blasted from hoses in a continuous _fwooshing_ sound that made little impression on the remaining flames.

Minato sat a short distance away, his Sekirei on either side of him. The other denizens of Izumo House seemed to have joined him. The blonde plant girl gave me an angry _fuuurgh__!_ when I looked at her (which, considering my intention to notify child services of her Ashikabi's lifestyle choices, did not bother me overmuch). I met Uzume's eyes only briefly, sparing her a fractional nod. She returned it, but scowled all the same.

My stomach growled. I'd been dedicating every bit of spare prana to healing, but conventional sustenance was another matter. Benitsubasa, with the hardihood typical of her species, had recuperated a while ago. She'd insisted, however, on staying by my side rather than picking up breakfast. No matter. We would be leaving soon enough.

"Ugh," said Benitsubasa.

"I concur."

MBI's helicopters had disgorged wave after wave of men in what appeared to be garbage bags. Benitsubasa called them 'hazmat suits'.

I admit that I grinned a bit when a puddle of my leftover Black Substance fried one of them

Among the bystanders, I noticed a girl in a white shirt. She wore a dark red tie with a design that resembled the Norwegian flag. Like everyone else in this backwater country, she'd apparently eschewed a dress - or even pants - for a miniskirt. Her oversized leather belt didn't improve matters.

A white-haired boy - or girl; I really couldn't tell - toddled alongside her. One could, perhaps, forgive me for my confusion. The boy (?) was wearing short-shorts and what appeared to be a woman's blouse. (You may rest assured that I'm not making this up as I go along. Honestly.) I caught a Sekirei prana signature from him.

...And of course, the girl was stomping over to me.

"YOU KIDNAPPED MY BIG BROTHER MINATO!"

So...apparently, the younger Sahashi sibling had acquired a Sekirei of her own. Somewhere. Perhaps Kazehana hadn't been lying when she'd said that Minato's mother held an important post at MBI. Nepotism, no doubt.

"I also poked him in the eyes, tweaked his nose, and pulled his hair," I said.

"...Wow, you fight like a girl. Anyways..."

The girl posed as if she was going to deliver an oration to the Roman senate. Her head swooped toward her Sekirei, a mad gleam in her eyes.

"Time for battle!"

The Sekirei tugged her sleeve.

"Um, Mistress, I'm not sure-"

"Sic 'em, Shiina!"

The Sekirei - Shiina, I supposed - shrugged, and a void grew around him. It evoked many unpleasant sensations, but I suppose I can describe it most accurately as a bounded field composed of death, decay, and misery.

I really didn't have time for this.

"Soon, you'll learn the errors of your ways!" the girl said. "Shiina's gonna defeat your Sekirei, and then I'll inflict righteous vengeance on you! Nightmares of schoolgirls in combat boots will haunt you for a lifetime afterward..."

I chanted an aria under my breath and prepared my mental manipulation spell. The girl seemed more than ordinarily suggestible, and I had just enough prana.

"...You'll wince in sympathy every time some other guy gets kicked you-know-where! After Shiina punishes your Sekirei, you'll blubber there like a little kid while I stand over you, impervious to your pleas! You'll be like, 'Oh, no, please Miss Gorgeous and Brainy Schoolgirl Ashikabi, please don't kick me in the nuts!' and I'll be like, 'Bwahaha! Too late evil wizard! Prepare to meet your fate!'. And then you'll be like-"

"You believe you're a duck."

The irritating girl squatted down and waddled back to her Sekirei. Quacking followed.

I sighed.

"All right, Benitsubasa," I said. "Time to go."

We headed up the street. It was going to be a long trip.

"But-" said the Sekirei.

I looked over my shoulder.

"Just feed her breadcrumbs and wait a few days."

* * *

We walked for a while.

Our path took us through a series of blocks with pink and yellow signs draped across the faces of their buildings. Most were written in that collection of scratches and tic-tac-toe boards that the Japanese optimistically call writing. The few Western words only underlined the place's strangeness. "Duty Free Shop" particularly stands out in my memory. And they'd ruined the capitalization on "GiGO" beyond all hope of salvage. Whatever a 'gigo' was. Perhaps they'd meant 'giggle'.

Indeed, the Japanese signs almost seemed like a parody of my own country's. Real objects covered by joke writing, like toys. Surely the cabs painted in bizarre colors and sporting equally bizarre writing could not be _real_ machines. Surely the near-hieroglyphics where "McDonald's" should have been inscribed were merely decorative. And a poor jest, at that.

The shopkeepers had colored the whole place with pastel colors, as if a giant toddler had vandalized it with chalk. The few trees were thick-trunked and narrow, their branches like some sort of aboriginal harpoon barbs. The traffic lights' necks curved over the roads rather than sticking out at right angles from their bases as proper traffic lights are wont to do.

The people jostled, squeezed, and squished. One could _feel_ their body heat. I occasionally smelt their breaths. From a poster, a purple-haired cartoon girl with eyes the size of dinner plates smiled down at me. Complete with pink ribbons in her hair. Her mouth must have been half the circumference of her ear. More products of Japan's Disney impersonation industry peeked out between the buildings from time to time.

"C'mon, Meriwether, it's not _that_ bad."

I looked down at Benitsubasa, who'd insisted on holding my arm. Presumably, this prevented me from getting absorbed by the seething mob. Somebody stepped on my foot.

"Bite your tongue, Benitsubasa."

Korean and Thai flags hung from the next two lamp posts. For some reason.

We took a shortcut through a building. Stands lined along the entrance like booths at a country fair. Neon letters glowed. Lights flashed. It reminded me a bit of the time Ilya had dragged me into an arcade. Steam rose from strange foods in vending booths, and offered equally strange smells. Multicolored cardboard squares that looked like greeting cards sat on clear plastic racks. Bare bulbs and fluorescents buzzed above us.

Occasionally, women accosted me with smiles almost as brainless as the nigh-pornographic cartoon girls plastered everywhere. They wore what one could charitably describe as "maid" uniforms. Most household management professionals would have begged to differ.

Benitsubasa pointed out unimportant things every so often. Here, a fried squid snack. There, a new release of fate-something-something-odd-punctuation. In that stall, a dating simulation. Sitting on the floor, a group of high schoolers playing a band "console" game. And over there-

"_Dating_ simulation?" I said.

Benitsubasa raised an eyebrow

"Yeah..."

"And people _pay_ for this?"

"Uh, yeah..."

"What's next? Cooking? Farming? Does your country, perchance, produce taking-out-the-garbage and watching-bathtubs-fill-up simulations as well?"

Benitsubasa stared at me a moment, and then looked away, a small smile on her face. She crossed her arms behind her head. Her gait acquired a slight swing.

"You know, I used to imagine that my life was a dating sim when I was a kid," she said. "Push the right buttons and you'd get the perfect Ashikabi. Handsome, charming, sophisticated, sports car...heh."

I smirked back at her.

"And where would _I_ fit into all this, I wonder?" I said.

Benitsubasa put a finger to her lips.

"I like to think of you as the product of a sad, bitter dating-game designer's divorce," she said. "Kinda like the joke boss that nobody can beat without cheat codes."

"Your dedication to your Ashikabi overwhelms me."

She met my eyes again, and fiddled with her fingers.

"A-and I really wish you'd give me the, um, cheat codes, Meriwether."

"Benitsubasa, I..."

A loud _"tarr"_ interrupted me before I could say something I would regret. A white-bellied bird alighted on my shoulder. My last familiar.

"You have something for me?"

Its head bobbed. I noted that its nonstop, prana-fuelled flight had not reduced it to an emaciated state. Ilya must have fed it thoroughly. She'd always had a weakness for small animals.

I unsnapped the satchel around its neck and unrolled the message.

* * *

_Dear Meriwether,_

_In response to your letter, these 'Jinki' were at one time believed to manifest the Third Magic. Relax, though. If the rumors had been true, my family would have used them for the Fuyuki tournament instead of the cursed artifact our fathers dismantled back in the '90s._

_Not to mention that the 'Jinki' are only a legend. (A fictional one.) _

_If you're curious, they're supposed to kill everybody when you bring them together. Something like that, anyway. Spooky. Why do you ask?_

_I missed you at last year's party. Hope you can bring someone special this year. (You do remember "girls", right? Those things with the long hair who wear dresses? They're kinda like books, but you can have conversations with them). _

_I get a little sad thinking of you hunkered down in your Clock Tower dormitory studying 24/7. Sigh._

_Tata,_

_Ilya_

* * *

I rolled my eyes. Informal as always.

"You're smiling," said Benitsubasa.

"She's...an old friend."

"You _have_ friends?"

"Loosely speaking, yes."

A few minutes later, our little expedition finally passed through the cultural desert of Shin Tokyo's modern entertainment district.

We entered narrower streets, and shadowed alleys.

"Here we are," I said.

Benitsuabsa looked at the cracked bricks and the door's peeling paint. She squinted as she peered through the single, smudged window. Even the doorknob had rusted.

"I'm _not_ living here."

"It's a temporary stop," I said. "I need to retrieve a few items."

She reached for the knob. I caught her hand. Her eyes widened, and she took a sharp breath.

"Wait," I said.

As expected, the garret's occupant hadn't constructed his bounded field very well. It still took a few mumbled Arias, hand passes, and prana applications to unlatch the thing.

"Done."

More gingerly this time, Benitsubasa took the handle and twisted. Hinges squeaked. The door swung aside to reveal a man hunkered behind a counter. He clutched something with a slight prana signature that must have been a rather pathetic Mystic Code. It looked like a Swiss army knife.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Satou."

And then, his grimace faded. A smile replaced it.

"L-Lord El-Melloi?"

I rubbed my forehead, though I doubted it would stave off the gathering migraine. The main's voice became a squeal.

"Lord El-Melloi! You're back to grace my humble workshop with your presence! By the ro-"

"_Don't_ finish that sentence."

Everything was as I remembered it. Brown leather bindings fit next to each other on shelves upon shelves of books, most far too advanced for a magus of this man's caliber (though hope springs eternal, I suppose). No wonder he'd reduced himself to living in a less-than-savory district. How he'd accumulated this stock with his questionable talents, I'm sure I'll never know.

Bare pipes on the ceiling thrummed with running water from the other residents. Tobacco smoke wafted from a pipe laid on a shelf. Next to the ashtray sat a bust of Bismarck, of all things - most likely fake porcelain. A grandfather clock clicked. All the place lacked was spider webs to complete the ambiance.

Benitsubasa sniffed and batted at the cloud of dust that our entrance had disturbed. She brushed the edges of the books. Her finger came away gray and powdery.

"Eeew. Whoever you are, you need to brush these cobwebs out."

On second thought, our host's decorator had thought of everything. My Sekirei tensed and opened her mouth. I worried at first that her injuries from the fight with Kazehana hadn't completely healed. Instead, though, she covered her mouth and sneezed with a little _"cheef!"_

"...And a vacuum wouldn't hurt, either," she added.

Benitsubasa bent over, her index finger floating from one title to another. Familiars. Fire-related magecraft. Alchemy. Cosmology. Her hand bumped a brass sphere. It flicked open. A nightingale made of pearl poked its head out, staring at Benitsubasa through rubies the size of pinpoints. The artifice twittered angrily and snapped its case shut again.

Benitsubasa blinked.

"Whoah. Even your paperweights have a bad attitude. What's _wrong _with you people?"

Self-justification, I have observed since, can take many forms. Some, like my father and mother, never find a need for it. Certainly not to quasi-familiars, whose insolence would have earned nothing more than a sharp, painful lesson. Others might use argument, or contempt, or silence. Unfortunately, try as I might, I cannot shake the belief that gestures - no matter how ambiguous - might also qualify.

_The time has come, the magus said_

_To speak of learned things_

_Of astrolabe and paradox_

_And silent, mistral wings_

Water collected in the air, crystallizing into two hexagonal networks of ice an inch in diameter each. They grew from a central point - a thin, hollow tube of ice. Condensing water vapor surrounded the creation like a halo. Six icy threads grew from the tube's sides, and two more from its front end.

And then, the ice butterfly fluttered onto Benitsubasa's shoulder. Her breath caught.

I smiled.

"My first Aria," I said. "I composed it after I'd read Carroll's book."

Benitsubasa brushed a tentative finger across the wing's edge. Moisture melted and refroze into an identical position as her skin passed over it.

"It's...beautiful."

"You know, when I was a boy, my father showed me something that _his _father had created for him," I said.

Benitsubasa kept brushing the butterfly.

"What was it?"

"I literally can't describe it," I said. "Part of its charm, actually - the memory fades so that it can feel fresh and new when you see it again. It must have taken the old fellow years to finish: freezing spells, ice, gold, and spirits in water crystals. My father said that it has fifty thousand moving parts. And I seem to recall strains of music trapped in the air around it."

I shrugged.

"I suppose I could show it to you sometime, after we win this absurd tournament of yours."

"I'd like that."

While Benitsubasa retreated to the sofa and played with the butterfly, I scanned the shelves. My host, for reasons known only to himself, had eschewed organizing his collection by subject, and had instead alphabetized by title. Q...R...S...

"Meriwether?"

"Eh?"

"About...about the books MBI took from your workshop."

I turned around. Benitsubasa's smile remained, but it seemed strained, somehow. Her eyes glistened. I felt a hole gathering in my stomach.

"What about the books?" I said.

She seemed to be paying very close attention to a yellowed family tree woodcut on the wall. Dust had dulled the frame's glass.

"Maybe you should tell your magic-people about this. The Clock Tower, or whatever you call them," she said.

"Do you _want_ them to dissect you?"

"I...I'd let them," she said. "If it protected you, I'd let them."

"Well, you _won't_."

Her head shot up in mid-sniffle. I smirked.

"There's no such thing as a question without an answer," I said. "Nor an unwinnable game."

"Yeah? And what if it's an _unfair_ game?"

"Cheat."

My digits tap-danced along the shelves. "T". There it was. Like most of its companions, the book had a purple leather cover that had dulled to a sort of grayish brown. Perhaps a century ago, someone had painted arabesques and ivy in gold leaf. They coiled across the cover like a maze. I caressed it, and felt tiny bits detach onto my hand from the worn cover. It was smooth.

I flipped through the pages. Vellum _fwopped, tworped, _flitted, and made all of the other lovely sounds that only books can make. I felt the edges of my mouth twitching upward. My lips parted, exposing teeth. _Yes._ This was it.

"What's up?"

The joy of scientific discovery dimmed somewhat when I realized just what this "experiment" might entail.

"Er...nothing," I said.

Benitsubasa's eyes narrowed.

"What's that book?"

She pushed herself up and leaned forward. I slipped the book behind my back.

"Something to defeat Karasuba. The idea occurred to me when I noticed your species' absurdly efficient prana use-"

Benitsubasa squealed and leaped out of the couch. She spun around my side. I backed toward the bookshelf. She followed, trying to grab the book.

"Lemmesee! You figured out how to _beat_-"

I threw out my palm.

"Only as a last resort!" I said. "Let's not get carried away! Hopefully we'll never have to use it. _Never! Nunquam!_"

Benitsubasa froze.

"What, is it like human sacrifice or something?"

"What? No! Not _that_ sort of last resort! Of course it's not-"

Benitsubasa gasped.

"It's _child_ sacrifice, isn't it?" she said.

"Do I seem like the sort of person who would sacrifice children to win a _game_?"

"You want an honest answer to that?"

"Probably not, no."

Alas, I'd backed up as far as I could. Benitsubasa dodged right. I rotated with her. She veered to the left and snatched the book with a "ha!"

And then, she stared at the title for a good thirty seconds.

"Waaaait a minute," she said. "Tantric...Is this what I _think_-"

"Augh! It's _sex_ magic, all right? _There!_ You've heard it! Satisfied?"

Benitsubasa paused, tapping her finger on her cheek.

"...Oh _yeah_."

* * *

**END OF SEASON 1**


	13. NONCANON End of Season OMAKE

**End-Of-Season (NON-CANON) Omake: What if Meriwether and Benitsubasa had fought the 4th War instead?**

_(Servants stolen shamelessly from Fate/Zero and Fate/Apocrypha.)_

* * *

**_10 Years After Benitsubasa's Good End (if such a thing even exists)..._**

Ever since the New Year's Fiasco of '22, Benitsubasa had advised me that I didn't hold my alcohol very well, and should refrain from imbibing too much at social events.

Similarly, most informed pundits agree that irritating Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg is ill-advised. This conclusion partly stems from Zelretch's penchant for practical jokes. I suspect, however, that it has more to do with the fact that he owns a jeweled sword that opens portals to other dimensions. A talent, incidentally, that he used to fight - and defeat - the moon_. _I do not speak figuratively.

One also might have thought that I'd developed a better survival instinct since the Sekirei Plan. I was respectable now, after all. _More _than respectable. The El-Melloi crest had passed to me, and with it came certain additional responsibilities.

Young Master Meriwether Archibald, Heir Apparent to the El-Melloi title and Sekirei Plan combatant, might have occasionally broken a rule or two. Lord El-Melloi II, Euryphis Lecturer and leading expert on non-human prana transfer, did not.

And yet, for some reason, I found myself both drinking too much and annoying Zelretch. In my defense, the first mistake had lead to the second. Perhaps it was the timing of the party. Right up until the year of his death, my father had delivered a lecture on that day. My mother, as she was wont to do at that time of year, had called and reminded me of this fact before Benitsubasa and I had left.

Whatever the reason, matters had proceeded from there.

* * *

So here we were: transported back to an alternate Fourth Heaven's Feel in my parents' places. Benitsubasa was not amused.

On the bright side, my research on the Fourth War had paid dividends.

In the War's original iteration, Waver Velvet, a long-haired little delinquent with subversive ideas about first-generation magi accomplishing anything important, had stolen my father's Catalyst. This, in turn, had forced my father to use another Catalyst to summon Diarmuid Ua Duibhne as his Servant instead.

...This was the same Diarmuid whose cursed "love spot" could make any woman fall in love with him, intentionally or otherwise. My father had nearly lost my mother.

One might argue that I had nothing to worry about. Benitsubasa's Sekirei Crest could have easily counteracted the love-spot, after all. True.

But while the Crest might have _channeled_ the love-spot's amorous energy from Diarmuid to me (Sekirei Crests were odd things), it would not have eliminated it. And quite frankly, satisfying Benitsubasa's already rabbit-like libido after it had been augmented by love magic was not a chore I looked forward to.

We'd hired an Enforcer to keep Alexander's artifact under tighter guard.

In retrospect, though, I should have chosen Diarmuid.

When I had summoned Alexander the Great to fight as my Servant, I had been expecting a philosopher-king with the _Iliad_ tucked under one arm and a sword in the other.

Instead, I'd received a seven-foot, red-bearded man who walked around the house in his underwear. At the moment, he sat at the dining room table, munching cornflakes mixed with beer. He wore a white shirt inscribed with some computer game title or other. And nothing else.

"Oi! Magus! I require a DRINKING COMPANION!"

"You require _pants._"

Our base of operations was not, as you might have guessed, the Fuyuki Hyatt. I had no inclination to repeat my father's mistake of fortifying myself there.

The tactic might have worked against most opponents, but my father had experienced the misfortune of facing Kiritsugu Emiya, the so-called Magus Killer. And the Magus Killer had not played by the rules. Kiritsugu had blown the whole thing to smithereens with conventional explosives. Twenty-four floors of spatial distortions, monsters, spirits, and other assorted traps had gone up in smoke.

Needless to say, I'd set up my father's traps in a rather more defensible location.

Fuyuki's Ryudo Temple rested on a leyline. Mana flowed through and around it like an underground stream; a reservoir of power. And now, that reservoir supported the same spatial distortions, monsters, bounded fields, and spirits that my father would have set up in the hotel.

During my walks along the paving stones leading up to the main entrance, the air around the temple would flicker or warp.

For all that, though, it was a somewhat charming example of traditional Japanese architecture. One could almost describe the main building as a pavilion with a roof. Everything rested on load-bearing pillars. The walls were barely an afterthought. One could probably have removed them without triggering an avalanche of wood and stone.

From the front, the clay roof assumed a trapezoidal shape, except for the upturned points at either end. The walls consisted partly of paper screens crisscrossed with veins of wood. The resulting drafts were predictable. Beyond the main building, a second wall of stone and white stucco fenced the temple complex in. Two pools flanked the path to the front door.

In the evening - and this evening in particular - a haze settled over the temple. Everything seemed dull and bright at the same time; bleary, like unpolished silver. The walls whispered. Even the knobbly tree shuddered without wind.

"HA!"

Benitsubasa's shout served to snap me out of my reverie. She sat by the window, a raven perched on her shoulder. You'll not credit it, but I could swear that she didn't look a day older than when she first bumped into me in the Shin Tokyo shopping district. She had, however, abandoned her elaborate spirals and hair clips in favor of something shorter and unstyled.

"Eh?" I said.

"Found him!" she said. "Y'know, I'm starting to like this familiar trick of yours."

"Who?"

"The final Master. And I know who his Servant is, too."

Alexander pumped his fist in the air and roared something about the art of conquest. We both ignored him.

"Do tell," I said.

"Remember how Waver Velvet _really_ wanted to participate?"

"Don't tell me-"

"He robbed the Victoria and Albert Museum last week."

I thought for a moment. What on earth could he use as a Catalyst from the...

...Oh.

"The First Folio," we both said simultaneously.

"Benitsubasa? I believe my Macedonian friend and I shall be going playwright hunting."

* * *

We did just that while Benitsubasa followed our movements from Ryudo.

I suppose she'd learned to trust me a bit in the years since our initial partnership. Or perhaps it had something to do with my inheriting my father's Crest and his _Volumen Hydragyrum _(which, incidentally, doubled nicely as a mobile easy chair) to protect myself.

Alas, the aforementioned Macedonian did not make himself nearly as personable a traveling companion as my pet puddle of mercury. I would have preferred the buzz of streetlamps.

"That pink-haired filly of yours...what is she to you, exactly?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

He shrugged.

"The Sekirei-thingy back at the temple. You're comrades, right?"

I paused, allowing my planned retort to melt back into my mouth.

What _was_ Benitsubasa to me, precisely? Mistress seemed too one-sided, somehow. Most mistresses do not beat their paramours' foes with iron girders. Lover? Again, too narrow. Also tasteless. True, but tasteless. Familiar? No; this raised the opposite problem. Wife? Not to my fellow magi, anyway. But perhaps to me.

Ultimately, I settled on a simpler answer.

"That's none of your business, Servant."

The testosterone-blob emitted a rumbling noise that could have been either a laugh or a growl. Before his face transferred either sentiment into an expression, though, he stroked his beard.

"And have you told her about your...preferences?"

"What 'preferences' are you referring to?"

He chuckled and patted me on the head. It felt a bit like getting swatted by a pile driver.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, magus! Why, Hephaestion and I rutted a bit ourselves as young men."

"_Rutted_?"

Alexander spread his arms, baring his hairy, sweaty chest to the world. His voice boomed.

"How well I recall my father, as he walked the field of Chaeronea and surveyed the wreck of the Theban Sacred Band! Three hundred men; lovers all! 'Perish anyone,' he said, 'who denies that these men covered themselves in glory!' Stirring words, eh? So bear yourself with pride, and -"

"All right, fine!" I said. "We're having intercourse! Heterosexual intercourse!"

He squinted at me.

"Mmmh. Not from where _I'm_ sleeping, you're not."

Now that? That...that was it.

I took a very deep breath.

"Perhaps Benitsubasa would be in the mood more often if your confounded games didn't make so much noise through the _PAPER THIN WALLS!_"

He waved one of his waffle-iron hands.

"Bah! Nonsense! If you want to plow a field, you _plow _it! You don't sit lollygagging around just because your neighbors are a little noisy! Why, I remember the time when a soldier two tents down brought back a saucy Persian piece-"

"AARGH! Enough with your frat-boy war stories!"

"But..."

"The noise. THE NOISE. It's _CONSTANT_. Whenever Benitsubasa's feeling even a little amorous, what do we hear? Eh? WELL? We hear that infernal doodley-beeping sound, followed by your game screeching _'Ye moost build mair phalanxes, Sire!'_"

I was aware - in a vague, out-of-body-experience sort of way - that I was screaming at the top of my lungs.

"Never mind the mangled pseudo-Glaswegian in an ostensibly Hellenic wargame. It's _phalanges_! _PHALANGES!_ Didn't you ever even _read_ Homer? Admittedly, I shouldn't have expected much from a _Macedonian_, but you could've at least _pretended _to ape the culture of your more civilized southern neighbors-"

He flicked me. I felt a jolt on my forehead. I say "jolt" because his fingers were roughly the thickness of drain pipes.

"How dare you-"

"We're here, magus."

And so we were.

* * *

Waver had chosen an apartment as his base of operations. It only took a few moments to disassemble his bounded field. The alarm would sound, but no matter.

Nor did the lock trouble me overmuch. I activated _Volumen Hydragyrum_. The moonlight glinted off its surface with each undulation. One of its mercury whips coiled into the lock and unlatched it.

Waver was waiting for us.

"Good evening, Mr.-"

He shot a rather halfhearted blast of fire. A silvery shield materialized in front of me as _Volumen Hydragyrum's_ automatic defensive mechanism engaged.

After the shield came down again, I saw the Servant.

I confess that I had imagined Shakespeare slightly differently from the cloaked, leather-gloved man with a quill stuck in his buttonhole that I saw before me. His hair was light - indeed, almost red - and unkempt.

He wore a green jacket with wide cuffs and lace shirtsleeves protruding from it (which, I note in passing, resembled something from the eighteenth century rather than Elizabeth's day). The lapels were white and red, striped like candy canes. As if to complete this assembly of anachronism, his triangular collar and ribbon around his neck would have probably suited a German Romantic.

"Ah, yes...the Fraud of Avon," I said. "So pleased to finally meet you."

His mouth hung open for perhaps five seconds, but he recovered nicely.

"_Pardon_?"

He had a surprisingly soft voice for a former stage actor. Or perhaps he'd modulated it deliberately.

"Oh, come now," I said. "It's painfully obvious that you never wrote those plays. You? The son of a wool smuggler? Ha! You couldn't even give your own name correctly on your marriage record. And that _awful_ poem you left on your tombstone..."

The Servant raised an eyebrow, his sneer quickly turning into a snarl.

"Oh, dear, I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I just must not have been putting my heart into my work while I was busy _dying_."

"...Not to mention your plays' intimate knowledge of just about everything. A massive vocabulary with a _grammar school_ education? History? Navigation? Italian manners? Military tactics? Philosophy? Law? No, I'm sorry, but there it is."

"And who, pray tell, is supposed to have written _my_ plays instead?" he said.

"The Earl of Oxford, probably. Though the Baconians make a couple interesting points about cryptography. Oh, I'll grant that you made a good living as an actor, theater owner, and, well..." I shrugged "..._front man_, but I'm afraid that most honest observers-"

"Listen, thou gleeking, sheep-biting pumpion! Thou and thy pet clotpole over there can-"

"'_You_' and '_your_' pet clotpole," I said.

"I would contend, sirrah, that the second person informal is eminently appropriate when insulting a beef-witted bum-bailey such as yourself in the heat of argument."

"But-"

"Especially when the pignut in question hasn't read enough history to realize that his opponent had his own coat of arms during England's golden age, and could thus address an El-Melloi hedge-wizard as a social inferior."

I snorted.

"Oh, pardon me," I said. "I forgot the coat of arms that you bought after your career as an - ahem - _tradesman. _Not to mention-"

"Also, I'm William _Fucking_ Shakespeare."

A shriek cut through the air. We both turned.

Waver Velvet lay on the ground in a pool of blood. His face had paled. Half-coagulated liquid glistened in the coils of his sweater. His eyes had widened, and every muscle in his face had tensed. Breaths emerged as ragged gasps, or sobs.

He'd live.

It had taken a command seal to force Alexander into something so "dishonorable" (read: intelligent) as attacking a Master for his Command Seals, but the results spoke for themselves. I turned to Waver's Servant.

"Here's my proposal," I said. "I'll keep Waver alive as your prana battery, but I'll be taking his Command Seals. You'll work for me now."

Oddly, the edges of his mouth twitched. I held out a hand.

"Welcome to the team," I said. "And incidentally, Oxford's extant text doesn't look statistically similar to yours, anyway."

The twitching blazed into a full-bore grin. And it was more than a little disturbing, at that.

"And you shall play my Iago, eh?" he said. "_Marvelous_. So all of that nonsense about Bacon and Oxford was-"

"Distraction, yes. I adored your work in _Richard III_. Especially the main character."

"That's...not _quite_ the reaction I was aiming for, but I suppose-"

"Though I confess to being rather put out at the end when the hero died."

"You do realize that Richard was a _villain _protagonist, don't you?"

"...Not to mention that the little princes in the tower definitely had it coming. Snarky little bastards."

My phone's dinging interrupted our nascent literary appreciation session. I held up a finger and flicked it open.

Benitsubasa's voice wavered as she greeted me. At first, I attributed it to the poor cell phone technology of the period (one grows accustomed to modern conveniences with a Sekirei in the house), but she soon disabused me of this notion.

"The Disciplinary Squad's here. One of your familiars spotted them."

My stomach churned, and a cold feeling spread through my body.

"Are you serious? How can they be-"

"I don't know! MBI must've detected me here, somehow. They could sorta track Sekirei prana, even if they never called it that-"

Alexander watched me, his lips thinning.

"Something wrong, magus?"

All right. I needed some time to think. If my familiars had detected the Disciplinary Squad _here_ and _now_, it must have been the second version. Karasuba would be part of it. I racked my brain for the other one.

"Who's the-"

"Yume," Benitsubasa said.

An image bubbled from my memory of the scythe-wielding sadist who'd splashed my guts across a Shin Tokyo roof.

"_Yomi_?" I said.

"No, Yume. You never met her. The Sekirei of Fate. Number Zero-Eight."

"Oh. A single number?"

"Yeah. An insanely powerful one. Which is weird, because she was all lovey-dovey whenever she wasn't fighting. Think Mary Poppins crossed with the Terminator."

"Wonderful," I said.

"That's not even the bad part."

The festering coldness in my stomach froze over completely.

"Benitsubasa...You-you're all right, aren't you?" I said. "You're safe? They didn't break through the defenses-"

"I'm fine," she snapped. "Calm down and pay attention. You know how Karasuba was part of the Disciplinary Squad?"

"Yes..."

"And you know how nobody winged her until the Sekirei Plan?"

"Yes..."

I realized that the phone was shaking ever so slightly as I clutched it. Benitsubasa's voice grew fainter with each word.

"Well, _somebody_ um...kinda...sorta...winged her?"

"_Who_ 'kinda sorta winged her'?" I said.

_Please don't be the serial killer._

_Please don't be the serial killer._

_Please don't be the-_

_"_Kotomine Kirei."

_"...That's even worse_!"

* * *

**Author Notes: **Incidentally, I like to think that Yume (Zero-Eight) would have reacted to Kariya Matou if their paths had ever crossed. Also, if given a choice of Catalysts (and if Benitsubasa hadn't smacked him and told him to get a stronger servant), Meriwether would have definitely summoned William Shakespeare as Caster.


	14. Chapter 13

Higa had reestablished himself across town. The building itself was a shining glass box crisscrossed with metal supports; its frame betrayed no obvious stone or concrete. The sole exception to this observation hugged the first floor: a girdle of granite, complete with "Higa Corp. Building" in gold letters. Reflections of pedestrians floated across the granite's face like ghosts in a void. Its wall of windows receded several feet back along the first five floors at a sharp, flat angle. The recession gave the illusion that someone had cut a triangular slice out of the building.

Women in frameless glasses and business skirts bustled around the entrance. Their high heels clicked.

Higa's new domicile should not, all things considered, have concerned me overmuch.

Its implications did. Noncombatants do not need a base of operations.

At least three of Higa's Sekirei had avoided termination. Kochou, the computer-type, was an obvious omission, but Ichiya and Toyotama hadn't been in the building when Minato's Sekirei had struck. Like their Ashikabi, they had been attending some function or other. An alibi, perhaps. Or maybe Higa had smelled a rat after all.

As my father is wont to say, though, one can always turn misfortune to one's advantage with sufficient ingenuity.

I opened the glass double doors. Benitsubasa went first, at her own insistence. As I walked across the marble floors, I ran through the words of a five-count Aria in my head just in case.

From the inside, a visitor's eyes were drawn to a web of metal tubes that held the exterior glass upright. The lobby's walls were a nutmeg-colored wood. I pointed to the hireling at the front desk, carefully avoiding eye contact.

"You there."

She did not respond. I snapped my fingers.

"You. Service woman. Or whatever they call the laboring classes over here. I don't suppose you could direct us to Mr. Hi-"

We heard a _ping_. Two creatures emerged from the elevator. The first I recognized from the party: Ichiya, the short-haired Sekirei in desperate need of finishing school.

The other I knew only through my familiars' eyes. Toyotama wore an abbreviated purple top that bared her midriff. Its only concessions to modesty - if one could call them that - were a high collar and long, black opera gloves that arguably only accentuated the slashed fabric between her breasts. Her hair, unlike many Sekirei, was black and unexceptional. Yet she looked at us through pale, cold blue eyes that remain, to this day, the most stunning I've ever seen.

How unfortunate that Benitsubasa would probably kill her eventually. Not today, though.

Toyotama twirled a staff. It hummed as it cut through the air.

"You've got a _lotta_ nerve coming here," she said.

"Your Ashikabi and I still have an...arrangement," I said. "And I believe that I can sweeten the deal."

Her reply was monosyllabic and rather unladylike.

I turned away, looking for a security camera. I heard the leather constricting in Benitsubasa's fighting gloves.

"Higa?" I shouted. "Come out! I still owe you Kazehana's termination, don't I? We can both negotiate with one another."

Nothing.

"Surely this isn't the ruthless chessmaster I once knew?" I said. "Hiding behind surveillance cameras?"

Still nothing.

"I can even beat Karasuba for you."

I sighed when silence greeted even this revelation. But the El-Melloi line is nothing if not persistent.

"...I understand that your family runs a pharmaceutical company. How would you like to split MBI's technological spoils between us, eh?"

With a _clomp_ and another bell tone, the elevator doors opened.

I entered. Benitsubasa and our escorts followed. The ride itself was a trifle unsociable.

We emerged.

The walls were covered horizontally with tan strips of paper, separated by wooden beams. Miniature bushes with red flowers grew out of stone pots on either side of the door. A fern sat near the window. Like most rooms in this country, the place exuded a sort of airy minimalism. Even the picture frames contained lines of white between their metal rims and inner borders.

I traced the patterns on the rug. They were periwinkle and floral in an abstract sort of way. A gold and lacquer frame divided the room, its folds reminiscent of a giant map or accordion.

...I would have killed for a bit of Baroque art.

Not that I had long to contemplate Higa's miserable taste in furnishing. The man himself sat behind a desk (Tanzanian _mpingo_ wood, I noted with grudging approval), his fingers steepled in front of him.

"You mentioned something about selling MBI's secrets, Mr. El-Melloi," he said. "Please elaborate."

"Well, as I mentioned, I can kill Karasuba, so-"

"How?"

"None of your business," I said.

"No deal."

Benitsubasa rolled her eyes and groaned. I sniffed.

"Very well," I said. "It's a...complicated prana transference ritual based on the same principle as the Norito, except extended over-"

"It's sex magic," Benitsubasa said.

Higa seemed to sit up slightly, peering over his fingers. Naturally, I immediately recaptured the initiative.

"...Er...yes. Hem. That. Um..._moving on.._.I suppose we need to discuss-"

"Sex magic?" he said.

"Ah...yes. That's about the size of - Er - that is to say, you seem to have grasped the- um...yes."

He pointed at us.

"As in, you two have sex," he said. "And that somehow solves all our problems."

For some reason, his tone left me with the uncanny impression that he considered us exhibitionists.

"Ahem. Well...I would more accurately describe it as, er, a contingency plan for emergencies - grave emergencies, I hasten to add - and would, moreover, qualify my answer by-"

"Yes," said Benitsubasa.

"What my Sekirei _means_ to say," I said, "is that we shall _only _utilize our - _ow leggo!_"

I glared over my shoulder. Benitsubasa smiled sweetly and patted my throbbing hand. At least she'd given me time to reinforce it.

"I think you've described our plan _perfectly_, Mr. Higa," she said. "Isn't that right, Meriwether?"

"Er...yes. Exactly."

With the preliminaries thus concluded, Benitsubasa stepped back and waited while Higa and I drew up the terms. Like most non-magi, his experience with business law had not prepared him for the crippling literalism of _geis_ contracts. Unlike most non-magi, however, he'd learned quickly.

We haggled for nine hours. Ichiya spent the majority slumped on the couch and groaning _aren't-you-finished-yet_ at five minute intervals. Toyotama tried to play some sort of hand-held computer game until Higa took it away. An attempt to practice single-arm handstand pushups met with similar discouragement.

To my surprise, Benitsubasa did none of these things. She stood in silence, her hands crossed behind her back. Yet I noticed occasional gestures nonetheless. Thinned lips when a term worried her. A slight smirk when I'd extracted a concession. Furrowed brows when Higa proposed one of his ninety-word sentences, replete with semicolons.

Stranger still, I found myself heeding these gestures during my maneuverings.

The terms themselves, when one subtracted the good-faith qualifiers and exceptions, reduced to the following: (1) Higa and I would cooperate. Benitsubasa and I would stay in his compound and help fortify it. (2) My earlier pledge to terminate Kazehana remained in force. (3) I would help Higa defeat MBI and take their technology. (4) In return, he would destroy all of MBI's records concerning magecraft when we'd seized control.

He gave this last point away surprisingly quickly, along with his pledge to keep silent about magecraft altogether.

I only learned later than his "hacker" Sekirei had seen MBI's research notes from my books. Higa knew about the Enforcers. And no sane man who knew about the Enforcers would expose magecraft to the world.

As soon as negotiations had concluded, I spent the better part of the evening assembling a bounded field around the building. Let it not be said that I don't learn from my mistakes: This time, I eschewed the usual invisibility in favor of something with more bite. Anyone trying to enter with hostile intent would find themselves in no small amount of pain.

* * *

I retired to our assigned room in dire need of sleep.

When the light turned on, I rolled my eyes.

Our host must have hired the same decorators that had already defiled his office. The floor was a ghastly sandy color, with brown lines that were probably intended to appear arboreal, but which actually resembled tea stains. The sofa had a cigar-shaped greenish-gold pillow, but its seat-back sloped into nothing on the left side. One could only receive decent support if one leaned.

Someone had even painted the wall behind the bed a sort of reddish-violet-carmine. Not to mention that the furniture was carved in the geometrically-fixated style favored by modern craftsmen. I use both terms loosely: 'craftsmen' and 'style'.

And someone was waiting for me.

Benitsubasa lay on the bed. She'd removed her assorted clips, and her hair spilled out over her shoulders. I was surprised to realize that it had the slightest waviness to it - still mostly straight, but no longer flat. The style accentuated her eyes, especially; they seemed more ovaloid, wider. In the darkness, her pupils had expanded.

"Er...sorry. Careless of me. Didn't mean to barge in before-"

"It's fine," she said. "Really."

I paused. She'd delivered the statement rather firmly - not harshly, mind, but with a certain finality.

Benitsubasa wore only a pair of black panties and sports bra. The orange half-light cast shadows across her stomach and neck. If the goosebumps on her skin were any indication, it must have been rather chilly. She watched me closely.

"You look tired," she said. "Would you-um..."

"What?"

Benitsubasa looked at the ceiling. Those lithe legs twined around each other. She bit her thumbnail.

"Would...you-I mean, I remember your book said that...um, prana rituals can help you recover. And we could use the practice..."

I turned away and cleared my throat. Come to think of it, the sofa in the other room didn't look _that_ uncomfortable when one examined it closely. While it _was_ admittedly abbreviated, and the seat itself might require Procrustean manipulations to fit a snoozing magus, with a _little_ determination...

"That...er, won't be necessary, thank you," I said. "The theory behind sex-er, tantric prana rituals isn't terribly complicated, so I'm sure-"

"...Please?"

Benitsubasa's reply had been so soft, so unlike my Sekirei most of the time. Once more, I found myself clearing my throat.

I have, on occasion, been called oblivious. I am not mentally defective.

"Now see here...ehm..."

And there were the moist eyes again. Blast.

"Benitsubasa, I suggest that you reconsider."

"W-what? But..."

I sighed.

"I realize that your species has an ingrained urge to reproduce. Conceded."

"But-"

"...And I'm not precisely sure what stimuli have triggered your urge to mate, but I can assure you that you'll be doing both yourself and your future Ashikabi a grave disservice if you give in to weakness now-"

She shot out of bed. Her tiny, disturbingly strong fists were clenched at her sides, shaking slightly from the effort.

"You're my Ashikabi!" she said. "_You!_ Not some other guy. I reacted to _you_, dumbass. And you can say I'm delusional, or lying, or whatever until you're _blue in the freaking face_, but I love you and you're my Ashikabi. Forever. _Period_!"

I blinked. As she glared at me, her arms crossed in front of her chest, I found myself sinking back into a chair. A heavy sensation grew in my chest. And realization came with it.

_She hasn't been lying._

"If that's so..."

"That's so," she said.

"...then I'm right."

"What?"

"If...if you genuinely _love _me just because I winged you - and that _is_ what you're telling me, make no mistake about it - then you are incredibly unfortunate, Benitsubasa. Your instincts, I'm afraid, have erred."

"B-but I...No, please don't say these things, I-"

"I am not...um. I'm not a particularly humble person, as I'm sure you've noticed. But I am not so blind to my own faults as to believe that you would be happy with me."

Her eyes widened. The fingers loosened slightly, her arms half-rising as if trying to stop a child from falling. It was a feeble sort of gesture, and died unfinished. She spoke faster now, her voice cracking from time to time.

"Please," she said. "Just...I don't...c-care about that. I'll be whatever you want, okay? _Do_ whatever you want. M-mistress, tantric experiment, familiar, whatever. _Okay?_ I-if you're worried that you won't be good at it or something, it doesn't matter, all right? Sekirei care about_ feelings_, not-"

"Precisely," I said. "You care about feelings. Your species, to its grave misfortune, loves unconditionally. I reiterate my earlier statement: you would not be happy with me."

"_Please_, Meriwether, I-"

"You have performed remarkably in the Sekirei Plan," I said. "You've saved my life on several occasions. And I find - to my occasional annoyance, I confess - that I respect you more than any non-human I've ever met. And more than any humans aside from my immediate family."

"And that's-"

"...Consequently, I'm not going to exploit what amounts to a mental illness for my own advantage. I'm sorry."

Benitusbasa slumped back to the bed, her arms hugging her upper chest. Her breath caught. Convulsions wracked her torso. I might at one time have concluded that they were hiccups, or something similar. But somewhere along the line, I'd learned to recognize when Benitsubasa was crying.

I sat down in the bed beside her. A curious gesture for an El-Melloi heir toward a biological weapon, I'll allow. But I did it anyway. Benitsubasa flinched when I put an arm on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me now," she said.

"I'm-"

"Just...just go, please."

* * *

I did as she'd bidden me, and shut the door. It closed with a slight click. As I walked down the hall, I rubbed a hand over my face and willed my muscles to relax. They did not comply.

"Yo, Ashikabi."

"WHAT?"

Ichiya smirked. She sauntered toward me, her steel-shod shoes echoing down the hallway with each step. A letter twitched between her thumb and forefinger. She dangled it in front of my face. I snatched it.

"What's this?" I said.

Ichiya slipped a finger between her teeth and licked her lips. She winked.

"A little bird brought it."

It was parchment.

It had a black seal.

I recognized the swirling penmanship.

* * *

_To His Son Meriwether, Residing In Shin Tokyo, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, Dispatches This Letter:_

_I find that I am too incensed to open with my customary proverb. _

_Long before Rome ousted Tarquinius Superbus and thereby invited the beginnings of republican rot, that stoic people embraced the principle of 'Patria Potestas': the right of the father to exercise severe discipline upon wayward children. And you, my son, are wayward indeed._

_The Clock Tower's classes began three days ago. Imagine my utter mortification, then, when I received word that you had not seen fit to grace your professors with your presence. _

_Your frolic is no longer a passing folly of youth. It is swallowing the future of my bloodline. And that, my son and heir, is something that I shall not countenance._

_I am coming to Japan. You will suffer consequences._

_- Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society_

* * *

"Awww, such a sad face. Bad news, Mr. Ashikabi?"

Ichiya's voice had practically cooed.

"N-nothing," I said.

"Good. Because guess what? We have a _visitor _waiting outside your bounded field! And she really, really wants to talk to you."

"I'm not in the mood for-"

"Lessee...she has _looooong_ purple hair, and an adorable little white kimono, and this demonic aura around her..."

The landlady.

The Sekirei landlady. Miya whatever-her-name was.

"Get Benitsubasa," I said.

Ichiya clicked her tongue.

"Too scared to go in there yourself, little boy? I heard everything, y'know. I guess I'd be ashamed too if I'd just told my Sekirei that I was too pathetic to-"

"JUST GET HER!"

I slammed the stairway door open and reinforced my legs, taking each flight of steps in one jump. The sound of the wooden door colliding with concrete echoed. Ichiya's laughter followed me all the way down.

I readied my circuits. If that _thing_ wanted to do more than talk, it might take both of Higa's Sekirei, Benitsubasa, and my own magecraft to defeat it.

And I wasn't even sure _that_ would be enough.


	15. Chapter 14

I arrived in the lobby to find Toyotama already standing watch at the glass doors. Our visitor waited in the courtyard beyond them. A katana hung from her side. She poked at the bounded field, her brows furrowing as she rubbed her lip with her other hand. Every time her finger touched the field, green sparks penetrated the night.

Ichiya and Benitsubasa arrived a minute or two later. My Sekirei's face was red and wet; the makeup on her eyes had run slightly. I didn't comment.

I reinforced my body and opened the door.

The creature - Miya - smiled. It was a polite, narrow sort of smile. I remembered Karasuba.

"You wanted to speak to me?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "Alone."

The creature's eyes flicked to my escorts. Her irises were a deep purple; so dark as to appear almost black. In the street lamps' half light, I barely noticed the difference until I'd arrived within a few feet. The fabric of her clothing did not rustle in the wind as ours did.

"You must be joking," I said.

"I could kill you right now, if you prefer."

The creature delivered this with the same soft smile. Benitsubasa stepped forward.

"Touch him and you're-"

I held up a hand. Benitsubasa growled - at me or Miya, I wasn't certain - but stopped talking.

"And how do I know that you'll keep your word?" I said.

Miya's prana flared, and I felt as if I'd taken an electrified marlin spike to my chest. I knew, in theory, that truly powerful creatures existed. The Twenty-Seven Ancestors came to mind. Even the beings that non-magi considered "regular" vampires might have qualified. Until that moment, though, I hadn't encountered one in person. So to speak.

"As I said, Mr. El-Melloi: I could kill you right now. I haven't. And I'm not in the habit of breaking my word...pleasant though it would be in this case."

Ultimately, I prevailed upon Benitsubasa to follow a rather long distance behind us. Higa's Sekirei declined to guard me, which neither surprised nor particularly offended me under the circumstances.

I nodded and swept my hand along a stone path. Higa had chosen his location well. A small garden was nestled between office buildings, surrounded by wooden fences. Shin Tokyo's property values must have made it extremely expensive.

While I generally can't stomach Japanese 'culture' (the term is nominal, not descriptive), I might make an exception for their gardens. Japan's landscapers revel in the illusion of control. A world in miniature.

Even at night, I could appreciate the craftsmanship. Grassy mounds stood as dwarfish counterparts to Japan's crags and mountains. The rocks were light gray, spotless, and moss-less. As for the pebbles scattered across the pond's shoreline, they presented the viewer with a vision of tan, rounded regularity. The water itself did not gush, or flow, or bubble. It loitered, in a stately sort of way, so that one could contemplate the moon's reflection on its surface.

When we walked on the path itself, the stones - also light gray, as if someone had washed them every morning before replacing them just so - crunched underfoot. It was the sort of deep, crackling sound that one might expect to hear when grinding cereal.

Cicadas whined from the trimmed, globular bushes.

"So...how can I help you?"

Miya looked up at me with those purple-on-black eyes. It bordered on the uncanny; she shared her species' delicate bone structure and dainty figure. One doesn't often need to lower one's gaze for something that can can cut battleships in half with a sword. From a distance.

Or so I have been informed since.

"How many other humans are...like you?" Miya said.

"Ah, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

The surge of power returned.

"I'm in no mood for humor, Mr. El-Melloi."

"Neither am I. Our secrets are our own. If you want to know something, ask Minato's computer Sekirei to steal it from MBI's files. The same information they stole from _me,_ incidentally."

Her hand tightened on the sword's hilt. For the first time, I noticed that she lacked the Sekirei crest on the back of her neck.

"Your 'information' has gaps."

"What a pity."

I could see it. I could _feel_ it, even: the curiosity eating at the back of her mind. I am hardly an expert judge of demeanor; I claim no special intuition into others' thoughts. But I'd witnessed this particular inner daemon often enough in the Clock Tower to recognize it.

I smirked.

"Your ship wasn't the first," I said. "Was it?"

"I see no reason to answer your questions when you haven't answered mine."

"Eight golden ships," I said. "That's what the legends said, anyway. And only seven arrived. I wonder...how long did you and your sisters wait in suspended animation before MBI defrosted you, eh?"

Her eyes widened a fraction. Her power had become suffocating, approaching the level of a bounded field.

"They must have dug your spacecraft out of the ground," I said. "At least, I can only _assume_ you crash-landed a while ago from the mythical garble. And if the old stories about the other ships' immigrants interbreeding with humans in the meantime are true..."

She did not reply.

"I think that we can make a deal...Miya, is it?" I said. "Your information for mine."

The night wind whispered through the trees. Rather stereotypically, in my opinion. Miya's hand alternately tightened and relaxed around her sword's hilt like a beating heart.

"...How many of you are there?" she said.

"Not many," I said. "For security reasons, I won't go further than that. My turn. What exactly are the Jinki?"

Miya stopped moving. I do not say 'froze' because that might imply some sort of fear. Miya had no reason for fear. Her motionlessness was simple efficiency.

"...How do you know about the Jinki?"

"That's two questions you've asked," I said. "You've answered nothing."

The night grew a little blacker. Coils of a bounded field seethed through the grass and wriggled around trees. Colors changed; the air became the color of bruises. A cadaverous stench filled my nostrils like oily smoke. I whirled around when I heard the clatter of woodblocks, but no one was there.

"You know, Mr. El-Melloi," she said. "Izumo Inn had a rather...interesting visit from child services the other day. One wonders who called them."

A phantom mask appeared in the air behind her.

Words cannot do the thing justice. In form, it was conventional: a horned purple devil's-head with curved fangs that jutted outward. Even its catlike eyes and pointed ears did not stray too far from convention. And yet, a cloak of the unnatural hung about it. It felt like something that should not have existed.

I am hardly a stranger to folk art. Though my father had never concerned himself with anthropological matters aside from occasional architectural curiosity, my maternal grandfather had assembled an attic of masks from across the globe. As a child, I remember laughing at the Austrian mask's blobby nose, the Korean kappa's batrachian face, and the extended, spoon-like tongue of the Mexican jaguar, licking its fuzzy mustache. Yet I also recall a monkey mask. An inoffensive enough piece, one would think - a toothy ivory smile, a wooden top hat, and eyes a little too much like a man's. Until it had bitten me.

Miya's apparition was worse.

My head swam. I felt my stomach contort itself with eerie synchronicity to my heart's hammering. The muscles in my chest constricted. Everything else shook, tingled, or both. Even oxygen became a precious commodity, as if I was breathing helium. Breaths came in, but air did not.

Nothing seemed real. Madness skittered across the edges of my consciousness like a centipede.

_Run._

_RUN._

And then, the bounded field vanished. A clammy sensation in my coat alerted me that I'd sweated half my water weight.

The landlady in the kimono smiled sweetly.

"Bring violence to Izumo again, and I'll kill you."

"D-duly noted," I said.

I staggered back, rubbing my forehead. My circuits prickled as if I'd lost blood flow to my entire body simultaneously. Pins and needles stabbed everywhere at once.

"I'll ask again, Mr. El-Melloi," Miya said. "Where did you hear about the Jinki?"

"K-Karasuba. It's...a prize, or something of that s-sort. For the Sekirei Plan."

Whatever this _thing_ was, it needed eliminating. And soon. Minato might as well have fortified himself behind the Maginot Line. And I wasn't sure that I could find an Ardennes Forest.

"A prize? Minaka's giving them as a _prize_?"

"Evidently."

I became aware of footsteps. Tiny, incredibly strong hands grasped my shoulders and pulled me back. I realized that Benitusbasa had pushed herself between us.

And Miya's smile remained in place.

"Oh, and Mr. El-Melloi?" she said.

"What?"

"I won't tell you about the Jinki," she said. "But I'll tell you this: my ancient sisters did not stay...maidens for long after they arrived in Japan. If a Sekirei reacted to you - and my sympathies go out to her - then you must carry Sekirei blood as well."

My skin felt as if ants had infested it. I shuddered.

"So you mean to tell me that lurking somewhere in **_my_** bloodline - a venerable line of magi, I might add, that stretches back further than the industrial revolution - I'm actually..."

"Yes."

"...part _Japanese_?"

Miya stopped in mid-nod, and stared. And so, for some reason, did Benitsubasa.

"I'll...just be going now," Miya said. "It's been enlightening."

She paused, though, and turned back to Benitsubasa. Her head tilted to one side.

"Tell me, fledgeling," she said. "If you hadn't reacted to this young man, would you still choose him as your Ashikabi? Your soulmate?"

"Yes, I-"

"No," I said. "She wouldn't. And I'm going to reverse this Sekirei _disease _of hers as soon as we terminate your tenants and win the 'Plan'. She can find someone more suitable."

Miya gave me a peculiar sort of look. It didn't last long, though. She nodded again to Benitsubasa, and resumed her journey back to Izumo.

Benitsubasa bit her lip.

"You're a real bastard sometimes, Meriwether."

I nodded.

"Which is precisely my point," I said.

As I watched Miya disappear into the distance, I began running through my options. Explosives were out. She could detect my familiars, and in any case Matsu could track them with the satellites.

Nor did I feel confident enough in my talents as a bombmaker to assemble one that would work. Oh, doubtless if I'd been Cornelius Alba I could have thrown together some fertilizer nitrate and manipulated it into an inferno. But I wasn't. And that line of thought assumed a bomb could kill Miya in the first place. It probably couldn't. The same applied doubly for arson.

Poison was out. I had a bit left, but lacked a delivery system. And as for bare hands...my sense of humor does not stretch that far. Perhaps I could reinforce a bullet, but I doubted that anything short of a reinforced antitank round could kill her.

I turned to Ichiya.

"Get Higa and Kochou," I said. "I need information on Miya."

Ichiya raised an eyebrow. Slowly, a grin spread across her face, and she took off.

* * *

We all met a short time later in the "hacker's" room.

I had only met Kochou briefly during Higa's charity ball. Now, I saw her in her natural environment. Higa had given her a room with eggplant-colored walls. The blinds - an equally revolting shade of purple - were drawn. Light peeked in between the crevices, glinting off the line of computer monitors on the far wall.

The Sekirei herself sat in a swiveling chair with plastic arm rests. Either she didn't know or - more likely - didn't care about its ability to recline, since she sat bolt upright. Her posture, at least, was admirable.

Kochou wore the same rust-colored glasses I'd seen earlier, though the frame left the lenses' top rims bare. A wire was clipped to both sides and ran behind her head. Around her neck was a ruffled collar, which matched the broad, frilly-looking purple belt that covered her stomach.

Her dress was, regrettably, lavender, shoulderless and diaphanous. The usual pair of offensively large breasts bulged beneath the fabric. Aside from this, however, her limbs were thin to the point of emaciation; hardly the lean wiriness of my own Sekirei's body. Kochou's skin was pale, and a mole rested in the middle of her forehead.

Overall, she conveyed the impression of a futuristic (and, it must be said, promiscuous) schoolmarm.

"Tell me about Miya," I said.

Kochou nodded. She sat up even straighter, if such a thing were possible, and her head twitched in a series of nods. Her eyes rolled back.

The line of computers on the far wall raced. Blue light flooded the room. Beeps, _boops_, and _skrees_ chorused. Computer fans hummed. Whatever connection she had with technology, it apparently did not require physical contact.

All of the screens went white. 'MBI Security Clearance' messages appeared on each of them, along with a blinking line (a 'cursor', Benitsubasa had called it). A line of dots appeared in each box.

LOADING...

LOADING...

PASSWORD VALIDATED. ACCESS GRANTED.

Kuchou's voice came out in a monotone. The resulting sentence, like its faithfully transcribed counterpart below, did not contain punctuation. Or breaths.

"Miya Asama number zero-one spouse Takehito deceased Sekirei crest vanished accordingly not technically Sekirei but self-described goddess customary distinguishing attire purple hakama white haori wooden sandals hair purple last saw action as former member and leader of first generation Disciplinary Squad on Kamikura 21 years previously true identity known only to original Disciplinary Squad and number zero-six Homura has rivalry with zero-four Karasuba-"

"Wait," I said. "Stop. She was married?"

Kuchou blinked and shook her head, as if clearing it. When she looked up at me, she nudged the glasses back onto the bridge of her nose with her forefinger.

"His name was Takehito," she said. "She keeps a shrine to him at Izumo Inn. You can see the surveillance footage if you like."

"Hm," I said. "Interesting...tell me, Kuchou, what would happen if a Sekirei's Ashikabi died of natural causes? Assuming, of course, that the loss of her crest somehow didn't kill her?"

Yet it was Benitsubasa who answered. She didn't look at me when she spoke.

"Her life would become empty," she said. "_She'd_ become empty, like a walking corpse. Her house would become a tomb."

"Huh..." I said.

Perhaps there was more than one way to skin a cat. If we wanted to eliminate Miya, though, we might have to do it soon.

"How much time do we have before the Third Stage starts?" I said. "And what can we expect?"

This time, Kochou did not descend into twitching synchronization with her computers.

"To answer the second part of your question," she said, "during the Third Stage, teams of Sekirei and their Ashikabis will compete against each other in minigames."

"What do you mean 'mini-games'? Games in a small area, or short time limit, or-"

Kochou rolled her eyes.

"Sorry. I forgot the whole 'believed the fry cooker was an iPod accessory' incident. 'Minigame' is a term from video gaming when you have a smaller game within the larger game. Think a scavenger hunt or a one-on-one duel."

"In my defense, that fry cooker was clearly-"

"Uh, right. Anyway, to answer your second question, the Third Stage triggers when most of the remaining Sekirei get winged. Which is weird, since I'd expected it to start by now. In fact..."

Kochou licked her lips and twirled a ballpoint pen, clicking it every so often. Her eyes swept back and forth as if she'd entered REM sleep. Images of Sekirei flashed on the monitors: a succession of well-endowed, doe-eyed young women. Their clothing designers had apparently done their bit for the environment by embracing minimalism.

"Lord Higa?" she said.

"What?"

"There's something else. It's very odd."

"Well?"

Kochou looked up. The computer painted her face a neon blue.

"Most of the unwinged Sekirei, Lord Higa," she said. "Over the last few days, they've just been...disappearing."


	16. Chapter 15

My mother once mentioned that binding promises are for romantics and fools. How much more foolish, then, to bind oneself to another's desires with cursed magecraft. Cursed, heavily customized, and therefore also unusual magecraft.

And unusual magecraft is often dangerous.

* * *

_A man in golden armor smiled._

_Swords flew. They fired from a warp in reality; a two-dimensional golden haze that had torn through the air around it like an open portal. White lines wavered in a crisscrossing pattern on its surface, like light on water. Weapons of all sorts emerged. The haze rippled around them. Black spears. A sword with zig-zagged patterns cut into the flat of the blade. Scimitars. A brass mace with a hollow center and four protruding flanges, all crowned with a red jewel the size of an egg. _

_A line of explosions marked their paths as they struck the ground._

_A figure in blue dodged between the explosions. It was small and thin, like a boy or a young woman. Fire reflected from the armor that he - or she - wore. _

_The man in gold's smile grew wider, and he rubbed a hand over his shock of blond hair._

_"Where's your master, dog? It's the homunculus, isn't-"_

_Her sword's lunging swipe cut him off. He dodged. _

_With a roar, another figure swooped down on the golden man. The new combatant was like a black cloud in human likeness. His helmet's visor glowed with red light. The golden man held up his hand, and a barrage of swords flew. The black knight caught one by the hilt and swung like a cricket batter at the oncoming swords. The air exploded. Cooked, almost._

_A fourth figure emerged from the night. He wore a skintight forest green garment that seemed too thin to be armor despite its segmented chest. Bracers guarded each arm. He wielded two spears, one red and one gold. _

_Swords rained three ways now. Some harried the boyish figure in blue, others kept the black knight busy with an insane game of ping-pong, and still others cut through the air toward the spearman. Rather than dodge, he deflected. The red spear lashed out. Some swords glanced away. Others shattered to flinders in a hail of sparks._

_In the distance, the sound of gunfire._

* * *

"_Aaaghurghk!_"

I woke up with something halfway between a choke and a scream, and realized that I had been making this noise for some time. The room spun. Sweat coated my sheets, and I felt a sort of choking fullness in my upper chest. My jaw ached. My throat ached. My right arm felt like I'd crushed it in a pneumatic press, while my left simply felt numb.

A heavy sensation had settled on my chest and breastbone, as if something out of a night terror was sitting on it. Dizziness swirled through my skull. Breaths came rapidly and without comfort. It called to mind the occasion I'd had the wind knocked out of me.

What was going...?

Another spasm.

"_Ghnruuurgh!"_

Something soft had wrapped around my leg. When my muscles twisted me forward, arms held me back. The muscles burned, but ultimately gave up their struggles and relaxed again.

"Shhh...S'okay. Shhh."

The ache retreated from my arm. My stomach's churning slowed. Even the feeling of pressure on my chest seemed to lift slightly. I became aware of hair brushing against my face.

"B-Benitsubasa?"

"Meriwether! Oh thank - What's happening? _Please _tell me what's wrong!"

My Sekirei was wrapped around me, and shaking. Dark rings had formed around her eyes. She wore a nightgown, although it had been torn slightly. Bits of mucus and blood from my nose were in her hair. The room smelled of stomach acid.

"How...long...?"

"You've b-been throwing up and spasming for n-nine hours, now," she said.

I tried to lay my hand on her back, but my arm ran out of energy and brushed against her face instead. She held it against her cheek.

"I-it's OK now, right, Meriwether? Right? A-and we can fix it if it's not! Whatever it-"

"Need...to...get...Kazeh - _urgh_ - Kazeha..." I said.

"What?" she said. "You can barely _move_! You need to-"

"G-geis..."

A _geis_ contract between magi can take several forms. One variety operates on the thaumaturgical crest directly, and its terms appear to non-magi as meaningless scribbles. Such a contract, it is said, can bind a man even after death. Another type lodges itself beside the heart, traveling through the nerves and binding itself in the body and mind. The slightly more exotic form that I had adapted for my contract with Higa had been modified to accommodate a bargain between a magus and non-magus. Yet all of them share a common characteristic: they are, technically speaking, curses.

They do not all necessarily bind through good faith, or enhanced motivation, or by controlling the body of the promisor. I'd wanted flexibility, freedom of action. This particular variant bound partly through the promise of suffering.

And I had been lax in my contractual duties. For far too long.

I also suspected that my second contract's incorporation of the first's terms had aggravated the situation. Or perhaps my earlier skirting of the rules had triggered a delayed reaction. Or...anything. I am not an expert. In retrospect, I should have been.

"Need...to get...Kazehana _soon_," I said. "Pain's stopped...hurry before...changes...its mind."

Benitsubasa's hands clenched and unclenched as she looked from me to the wall and back again. She did it rapidly, as if she was a contestant trying to choose between two doors on one of those infernal Japanese game shows.

"...I-I can do that! I'll do it, okay? Just tell me what to do and I'll-"

"Need me...as well...has to work first - _herghk_ - time," I said.

If I kept working toward the goal, the _geis_ might leave me alone for long enough to finish the job. But that meant I had to hurry.

"Get...ready...t'go," I said.

"But-"

I smirked and touched her hair.

"An' take...shower...you smell...awful...'kay Benitsubasa?"

Benitsubasa gave me a tight smile. With the moisture in her eyes, I was unsure whether her next shudder was a laugh or a sob. Regardless, she nodded.

"You first, though," she said.

I felt pressure on my armpit as she put my arm over her shoulder and helped me up. We staggered - or, rather, I staggered and she half-carried me - over to the bathroom. Cold tile stung my feet. She lowered me into the shower , and I heard the handle squeak as she turned it. Warmth ran over my face and back as Benitsubasa brushed the hair out of my eyes.

Through the steam, I saw her smiling softly.

"Somehow, I'd hoped our first shower together would be a little...different."

"S'indecent..." I muttered.

"Shut up and relax. You need to recover before we go somewhere anyway."

She scrubbed away the accumulated grime quickly, as befitted our short time schedule. My stomach lurched once more, but otherwise behaved itself. When I stood up again, I did so under my own power.

A bit shakily, perhaps, but I managed. I suppose I had to concede that the warm water had done its work. I leaned against the door frame.

"Clean up," I said. "You have eight minutes while I get dressed and get us -"

My heart twinged. I inhaled sharply and closed my eyes.

"...breakfast."

"I'll take five," she said.

"Suit yourself."

* * *

Given more time, I would have investigated the Sekirei disappearances further. Alas, my contract with Higa had worked admirably. I had none to spare.

Benitsubasa and I found ourselves headed for the one spot that might have held the key to defeating Miya. The cab had dropped us off a few blocks from our destination.

I sipped a plastic bottle of orange juice as we walked. Thus far, my stomach had cooperated. The sun beat down. I could feel my heartbeat through my hands. They felt tiny and shrunken, as if I'd lost all sensation in the muscles and skin, and could only feel my bones.

I leaned slightly on Benitsubasa's shoulder. My Sekirei had the decency not to comment on the arrangement, and I admit to a small spark of gratitude for her tactfulness. It went unremarked, naturally.

"So...what's the plan?" she said.

"You recall, I presume, that my father currently heads the Clock Tower's Spiritual Invocation Division?"

"Uh, yeah, you mentioned it once or twice..."

"Technically, my father's department would oversee research into Sekirei crests if we ever got our hands on your species - which we _won't,_ incidentally - but its primary purpose lies elsewhere."

"Like what?" she said.

"Invoking entities that you would call ghosts or spirits," I said. "Hence the blindingly obvious title."

"Sheesh, you're bitchy this morning," she said.

"Must have something to do with the cursed hole in my chest."

"...Sorry."

I waved my hand.

"Your apology is unnecessary. In any event, the combination of my family's aptitude for invocation, Matsu's investigation of MBI's files on me, and Miya's rather unhealthy attachment to her dead husband gave me an idea for a bit of blackma-"

I stopped.

Someone had turned our destination to splinters and cement dust. Its bounded field remained. The scent of smoke still hung in the air, as if the field had activated recently. Yet whoever - or whatever - had touched it had either left or been carried away.

The smudged windows had cracked. The door lay atop a pile of bricks. Alongside scratches from the peeling paint, it now bore four parallel gouges. Its hinges had been twisted like putty. Benitsubasa traced the marks with her index finger, and frowned.

I stuck my head in. A sight far worse awaited me.

Gone.

All of the books were gone.

Former shelves of vellum and leather now stood with nary a speck of dust to mark their occupants' passing. Even the ruby-eyed bird automaton had been reduced in glittering fragments. Tiny screws lay on the floor, nestled in nooks and crannies like Easter eggs.

The grandfather clock had been splintered, nay, ripped to shreds. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw worse: shreds of paper and vellum. Bindings torn from their pages. I caressed a ripped page with half a magic circle inscribed on it. My fingers rubbed the ink: a mixture of gum arabic, ferrous sulfate, galls, and water that must have lasted for centuries before someone had destroyed the book that had sheltered it.

Oh, and the first-generation magus was dead, for what it was worth. That mystic code Swiss army knife of his rested beside him. It had been crushed into a ball.

Dried bloodstains covered the ground. The carpet was ruined.

"Who did this...?" I said.

Benitsubasa looked up from the body. It was purple and bloated, and even when one took the heat into account, it must have been sitting for a while before we found it. The bounded field had ensured privacy even after death.

"These claw marks look familiar," Benitsubasa said. "I've seen wounds like this on Haihane's targets."

"I was referring to the books, but I suppose that's good to know as well," I said.

I stepped over the remains of a sofa. Glass crunched. Sunlight shined through holes in the wood. When I followed the likely paths of the projectiles that must have made them, I found impact points, but no projectiles. As if they'd melted into thin air.

_Or evaporated..._

I looked back at the body. The slices initially gave the impression of butchered game. Yet there was something else. Something beyond simply preparing a trophy. Someone had dug a square hole in his torso. A regular person might have concluded that they were looking for an organ. As a magus, I could narrow the field considerably. They'd been looking for his (nonexistent) thaumaturgical crest.

I _knew _how the Disciplinary Squad had found this place. I _knew_ why the Disciplinary Squad would want the books. Or at least, I thought I knew. But why dissect the body here? If they wanted the crest, why not bring the body to MBI's labs?

I mentioned some of this to Benitsubasa. I'd primarily intended to hear my own thoughts out loud rather than to solicit advice, but once again, my Sekirei surprised me.

"Maybe they didn't have permission from MBI," she said.

"Then how did they avoid MBI surveillance?"

"The technicians," Benitsubasa said. "They must've bribed or threatened the guys who run the satellites."

"But to what _end?_"

Benitsubasa shrugged. The corpse gave us no further answers beyond his endless stare.

I hammered my brain for the contents of the library. Most had been theoretical or historical, as befitted a first generation magus. What, then? Basic runes? Formalcraft? Most of those would have been useless to a species that could summon the elements without an Aria.

_What are the Jinki?_

Again, the question festered in the back of my mind. Did this have something to do with them? Or...?

Pain lanced through my chest. Benitsubasa gasped and caught me before I sank to my knees.

No time for mysteries. Or, better yet, I could combine the two. The landlady knew what the Jinki were, and the landylady protected Minato. Kill two wagtails with one stone.

Or at worst, terminate Kazehana and _Stop. The. Pain._. And then, I would have all the time in the world. I could sit behind my bounded field, guarded by Sekirei, and wait until Miya calmed down again.

It would work. Hopefully. It had to.

"We're going home," I said.

I staggered out of the building with little to show for it. Sunlight glared, and I shielded my eyes.

"_Tarr!_"

Bony feet alighted on my shoulder. It took perhaps two seconds for me to notice the fluttering of wings next to my ear and react to it. After another moment or two of flailing, I recognized that the bird in question was my own familiar. I felt pinpricks as the claws dug in.

* * *

_To His Son Meriwether, Residing In Shin Tokyo, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, Dispatches This Letter:_

_I have arrived in Japan. I find that my suspicions about your true motives for visiting this intellectual wasteland only grow stronger with the passage of time. It is, if anything, worse than I remember it. The stewardesses refuse to serve tea on flights, the women dress immodestly (though this vice, I concede, extends throughout the industrialized world), and people continuously refer me to that "internet" fad when I make inquiries._

_My own business here is now concluded. I have attended to certain matters that need not concern you further. _

_Thus, it is my intention to retrieve you on the day after tomorrow, and I do not wish to track your prana signature. Provide your familiar with your address, and dispatch the message back to me immediately._

_- Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society_

* * *

Well...this complicated matters considerably, didn't it? Even if Miya hadn't existed, I wasn't certain that I could eliminate all of the competition in two days. Perhaps if-

"What is it?"

I sighed and handed Benitsubasa the letter. Silence for a while. It crinkled in her hands.

"It's really happening," she whispered. "I thought it wouldn't, somehow..."

"We're accelerating the schedule," I said.

"But-"

"We'll finish off Minato this afternoon, Miya or otherwise. With luck, we may even coerce her into helping us against Karasuba later on. And then it's up to you: either we drop out of the plan, make whatever deal we can with MBI, and I turn myself in to the Clock Tower, or..."

I waved my hand and hoped she'd get the message. She did.

"The prana exchange ritual," she said.

"Yes. We'll perform the tantric ritual and hope that it provides enough of an edge to defeat the Disciplinary Squad. And we'll take these '_Jinki_' while we're at it."

"I thought you needed the books from the dead guy."

"We'll bluff," I said.

"Um...I'm not sure that's a good idea if we're-"

"Does it LOOK like I have options?"

Benitsubasa bit her lip and looked away.

"No...I guess not. Sorry," she said.

"So?"

"So...what?"

"If anything, this plan carries even higher risks than throwing myself on the mercies of the Clock Tower. My prospects are not enviable either way," I said.

"There _must _be a way to-"

"Doubtful. And in light of the fact that the...er...prana exchange ritual could further complicate your relationship with a future Ashikabi, I suppose I'll leave the dilemma to-"

"Yes. We'll do it."

Benitsubasa squeezed my hand. And I found, condescending though I might have considered the gesture under normal circumstances, that I appreciated it.


	17. Chapter 16

By the time we'd arrived back at Higa's compound, it had already passed two o'clock. No time to experiment with tantric magic. We needed this immediately.

Hardly an ideal time for an attack, either, but at least some of the inhabitants went shopping after midday. The house would be relatively empty. And Kazehana, tippler that she was, would probably remain at home with a sake bottle or twelve.

Five of us sat around a glass table. Benitsubasa sat quietly at attention. Higa leaned forward on his elbows. Toyotama's quarterstaff clacked on the floor in a _one, two-three_ rhythm. Ichiya contented herself with shifting in her seat every so often.

As for Kochou, she reclined on the couch at the other end of the room, tapping away at the thin-looking computer on the top of her lap.

I dialed Uzume.

The phone's electronic bell tone purred a few times before stopping. I heard distant voices, like crowd sounds in an airport's flight announcement.

"Put it on speakerphone," Benitsubasa said.

While I looked around for appropriate acoustic equipment, Benitsubasa rolled her eyes and snatched my phone. She pressed a button. Uzume's voice became much louder.

"Uzume? Are you-"

"Hsst! Wait a minute!"

Footsteps. I heard a doorknob turn, and hinges squeak. It closed again with a _whumpf_.

"OK, I'm outside. What do you want?"

"I have two...tasks for you," I said. "As per our earlier agreement, you are obliged to carry them out."

"Yeah, what is it now? You'd _better _not ask me to kill Minato, because I swear that if you do I'll-"

"Comply. Because, as I mentioned, it's in our contract. But my job is rather simpler."

"Then tell me."

"Item one: Terminate Kazehana. While I'd prefer a Level Five after the job she did on _**MY** _Sekirei, I'm afraid something simpler will have to do. Does she ever turn her back long enough to touch her crest?"

"Wh-what? You want me to-"

"Yes, I do. Item two: steal as many items as practicable from Miya's husband's shrine. I understand that she keeps it in the house. I would prefer something that the man - Takehito, I believe? - actually owned while he was still alive, but-"

"What are you going to _do?_"

"Kochou is composing one of those 'virtual letters' to Matsu as we speak," I said. "We'll send it when you've fulfilled your duties."

Silence.

And then...

"ARE YOU INSANE? Do you have any IDEA what Miya will do to you?"

I smirked. Pity she couldn't see it through the phone line.

"In that case, you'll have relieved yourself of further obligations to me, won't you?"

"...Okay, look. You're arrogant as all get-out, and you'll probably think I have _no idea_ what I'm talking about. I get that. But just listen, OK? Please? MIYA. WILL. KILL. YOU. This isn't freaking Homura. I saw her sparring Musubi and Tsukiumi before you terminated them. She wasn't even _trying_, and it was like a pro boxer playing around with a couple kids."

"We're wasting time," I said. "I'll be activating that mental link to you that I set up earlier. I want to see through your eyes. We'll communicate through thoughts. No need for cell phones."

"I'm never going to see Chiho again because of this. You know that?"

I shrugged. Again, a pointless gesture given the communication medium.

"I fail to see how that distinguishes you from 106 other Sekirei who will also lose this game," I said. "Some of whom you terminated, as I recall."

"I hope you lose someone close to you someday, Meriwether. I really do. I know it sounds terrible, but I don't care. Maybe then you'll realize that this isn't a _fucking game_."

"Funny," I said. "Because I distinctly remember saving someone who fit that description for you."

Again, silence.

"...And your foul language is not appreciated," I said.

A stream of expletives followed. This, in retrospect, was probably foreseeable.

We began a few minutes later. The rest of the room fell silent. I closed my eyes and recited the appropriate Aria.

Most magi would consider my remote viewing arrangement a complicated luxury. I concede that it was both. It worked along similar principles to a familiar contract, save that it was more elaborate and far less useful. I'd prepared it weeks earlier.

And, as already mentioned, it was useless from a practical standpoint.

Uzume would be doing the work. My own direction, if anything, would degrade her efficiency. Nevertheless, I admit to a certain curiosity. I'd never seen Izumo Inn's interior. More than that, I wanted to watch Uzume eliminate Kazehana.

So I'd see it through her eyes. And I would be able to communicate with her through thoughts. An experience which, now that I thought about it, might not be as pleasant as I'd initially believed.

I chanted the Aria.

**_Subtract the place._**

**_Subtract the senses._**

**_Subtract the body._**

**_Retain the mind._**

* * *

Uzume opened her eyes. My - our - eyes.

_Are you there?_ I thought.

_This...is really creepy, _Uzume's voice replied in my head.

The walls consisted of paper panes framed with wood. When we reached the kitchen, the refrigerator appeared offwhite and rather old. To my disappointment, asylum-green walls replaced the traditional paper panes.

The cabinets barely compensated for the general atmosphere of a daycare center with what appeared to be cherry wood. The floors were covered in green rush mats, crisscrossed with gray foamy-plastic strips that might have been tape. A shame, because I could detect a dark, polished wood underneath the-

_HEY! Stop using MY eyes to admire the home furnishing_.

_But-_

_And stop monologuing in my head. Ugh...it's like listening to Martha Stewart doing an American Psycho impression._

I loosened the connection between us. I needed Uzume in full control of her faculties. Her muscles returned to her control, and I felt myself (ourselves?) move according to her direction rather than mine.

In another room, that blond child-Sekirei - Kusano, I think - ran across the floor, her feet slapping the rush mats. Her guardians had evidently neglected to mention the concept of 'no-horseplay-in-the-house'.

And that brought to mind another issue:

A _child _lived in this house.

Where were the textbooks? I hadn't seen so much as a Latin dictionary. Calculators? Chemistry sets? Where had they set up Kusano's first laboratory? Or her shelf of Greek potsherds? Where were the chalkboards filled with equations, and the _My First Dissection_ kit, and all the other things that made childhood so magical?

It was disturbing.

The steps creaked. A white light hung above us, and it cast shadows on the gray walls. Our heart pounded. We set our jaw and continued upward. Our shadow magnified Uzume's errant tuft of hair.

Creak.

Creak.

We heard water splashing. Uzume walked along a hallway, undressing as she went. A line of clothes - socks, shirt, bra and jeans - marked her path.

_Uzume, surely you're not just going to just leave them there? Don't you have a hamper or-_

_Shut up._

Uzume opened the door. It was a relatively traditional bath by this country's standards. The upper portion of the wall and the floorboards were the same dark wood paneling that I'd noticed downstairs, while the lower half had been painted robin's egg blue. Even the bathtub was a wooden box, perhaps ten feet long. And...

Oh.

We noticed Kazehana sitting by the side of the side of the tub. The combination of steam and sweat had created beads of moisture all over her body. It was the sort of body that Bouguereau would have slobbered over: absurdly oversized breasts, round bottom, _et cetera_.

And then, Uzume's mind took over.

A heaviness grew in our chest as we remembered the times we'd touched that body. We wiped tears from our eyes, even as we felt a warmth growing from remembered closeness. Not...love, exactly. But we remembered. The softness of those breasts. The silky feeling of Kazehana's skin against our fingers-

_Enough! Stop this disgusting train of thought THIS INSTANT, d'you hear me? _

_Bite me, Meriwether._

_If you mean that literally (as opposed to the exotic idiomatic expression that I assume it to be), then I can assure you that after learning where your body has been, I'd rather-_

_SHUT UP!_

Kazehana looked up.

"Uzume? Are you all right?" she said.

A jolt of cold in our chest. Adrenaline.

"Uh...yeah. Just, um, thinking about Musubi and Tsukiumi. It's lonely without them, you know?" we said.

Kazehana nodded. She looked down, and we followed her gaze to the green bottle of sake in her lap. It was roughly the length of her arm.

"Drink with me, Uzume?"

"S-sure..."

We blinked the steam from our eyes, and felt the warm puddle as we sat beside Kazehana. Our fingers trembled.

We saw the Crest. Right on the back of her neck. A foot away, maybe.

_Please don't make me do this. I'm begging you, okay? Just-_

_Now, Uzume._

Our hand shot out before Kazehana's eyes could widen, or the betrayal could register on her face. Uzume touched the crest and chanted her Aria at lightning speed. Kazehana slumped. It was, to use a tired-but-apt expression, like watching a puppet getting its strings cut.

Nausea.

Fear.

Disgust.

And more than a little self-loathing.

_I...I actually did it. A-and she just dropped like that. I can't believe I did that to my-_

_Focus, if you please. Take the items from Miya's shrine and get out of there. _

Uzume summoned her veils. White fabric coiled in the air around us, while a short white skirt, veil, and bra wrapped around their corresponding parts. They clung to our body in the damp.

The shrine was mercifully unguarded. As the memory of the motionless body in the bath raced through our head, Uzume opened the door. The room was dark. Only a few beams of afternoon sunlight crept through the window. A second thrill of adrenaline passed through Uzume's body when we saw the photograph, incense, votive scraps of paper, and collection of knicknacks that passed for a "shrine" in this part of the world.

_Well? Go on._

Uzume stuffed it all into a sack and rushed for the door. The items clattering against each other did not fill me with confidence that I could return them undamaged. Or use them on the offchance that I _did_ try to summon Takehito some day. If only out of curiosity.

But we were out.

We felt sunshine on our face. We breathed fresh air.

_Take it to Higa's new_ _address_, I thought._ Do you need directions?_

_No._

_Very well, then._

I withdrew my consciousness from Uzume.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, my heart leaped in my chest. I wanted to laugh, or roll around giggling. And I had not giggled since I was two years old.

The pain was gone. Terminating Kazehana had worked.

"Meriwether, are you-" Benitsubasa said.

"IT WORKED!"

Benitsubasa gave a small "eep" as I jumped up and grabbed her shoulders, squeezing her close to me.

"It's gone! The pain is gone! My soul isn't cracking into a million pieces anymore, and-"

...And I'd just hugged my Sekirei. I let go and muttered an apology. Benitsubasa had gone red in the face. One can only assume that she was as embarassed about my unseemly behavior (and in front of Higa, no less) as I was.

I _ahem'd._

"Send the message," I said.

* * *

_To Number Zero-One, Miya Asama, Landlady and Former Leader of the Disciplinary Squad (Ret.), Residing At Izumo Inn, Meriwether Archibald, El-Melloi Heir Apparent, Sends Greetings:_

_Doubtless Matsu has kept you abreast of MBI's research into my books. I direct your attention to one in particular: Fundamentals of Thaumaturgical Theory, wherein you will find a passably accurate overview of the various types of spirits - Wraiths, Guardian Spirits, Animal Spirits, and so on. (See chapters 3-5)._

_Souls decay. Over time, many become 'leftover thoughts' - a rather poetic term for fragments that cling to this world after their vessel has rotted._

_I had often wondered how you developed your bounded field. I have my suspicions. Your Sekirei Crest may well have anchored fragments of your husband's soul to you. One wonders if he had circuits._

_...But that is neither here nor there. Whatever the truth of the matter, I doubt that the entirety of your husband's former soul has adhered to your Crest. The remaining undecayed fragments are therefore - as they say in the West - "up for grabs"._

_And I have just grabbed them._

_Uzume has taken your mementoes of Takehito. They will serve as a perfect Catalyst to summon whatever is left of your husband. Given my penchant for killing people when they're still alive, I leave your dead husband's fate to your imagination. _

_If, that is, you do not comply with my orders._

_I will send a list of my demands presently._

_Kindest Regards._

_Meriwether Archibald, El-Melloi Heir Apparent_

* * *

It was, in all modesty, an artful bit of nonsense. Oh, I might have managed to summon Miya's husband in ideal circumstances - _if_ his soul hadn't degraded too much, and his leftover thoughts clung to her shrine rather than something else, and I had my thaumaturgical books, and I had my father's talent...and a thousand other "ifs".

But Miya didn't know that.

The books in MBI's custody discussed summoning theory in the abstract, and for specialists, at that. I was no specialist. My father could have done it. My mother, if given time, might have managed as well. I couldn't.

Miya _did_ know, though, that I had managed to come within a few aces of winning the Sekirei Plan. That just might have been enough to convince her that I was competent by my people's standards, age notwithstanding.

My speculations about Miya's bounded field were a particularly inspired touch. I hadn't the foggiest how she'd developed that crime against nature. And it wasn't as if her _husband_ had used such a thing in life. (Or so one would assume).

"Now what?" Benitsubasa said.

"Now? Uzume will arrive, and we'll wait and see if my little bluff wor-"

Something pulled at the edge of my consciousness. I returned my focus to Uzume.

...And wished I hadn't.

The bag had dropped on the ground. Pieces of Miya's shrine were scattered in the dirt. A bounded field around Uzume undulated and swirled like a pool of oil. Its customary purple had darkened to black. Uzume's strips of cloth moved slowly in that inky haze, as if they were pushing through water. They trembled nevertheless.

And the _noise_.

Woodblocks banged together by the thousands. My (our? Uzume's? I couldn't tell anymore) ears throbbed in pain. I heard screams. The demon masks had multiplied into a wall. They grinned, and stuck out their tongues, and spat. Other shapes floated through the void. I forced Uzume's eyes to squint, and saw the form of a soldier. He'd been cut nearly in two. I didn't recognize the uniform.

And then, I saw his comrades.

Bodies upon bodies. It was like a serial killer's dimensional closet. Severed torsos. Severed heads. Wrecked helicopters burned, their plumes of smoke dissolving into the darkness. Two halves of a warship floated far in the distance. It was an enormous hulk of a thing, looking like nothing so much as the remains of a decaying whale. Specks surrounded it like a cloud. The distance was so great that it took me time to realize that they were the former crew.

So these were the victims of the first Disciplinary Squad.

The void parted. A lady in white stepped through it. Her wooden sandals did not make a sound as they stepped through the void.

Her voice was so very soft.

"Uzume," she said. "Violence at Izumo House is prohibited. And so is _desecration._"

So great was the chill that Uzume's lips and jaw responded sluggishly.

"F-for my Ashikabi's sake," she said. "S-sorry, Miya. But I'll f-fight you for it."

Miya's face did not move, but she nodded.

"Then I am sorry as well, Uzume."

Fabric bolts lashed out. They met a glint of metal, and fell to the ground as shredded rags.

And then, those deep purple-in-purple eyes fixed Uzume's vision in place. I felt something beyond physical fear. It was as if my existence was shuddering.

"I see you in there, Meriwether," she said. "And I'm coming for you next."

I tugged on my consciousness like a rabid dog against a leash. The white figure blurred as she raced at Uzume. The sword flashed.

* * *

I collapsed backward, and found myself staring at the meeting room ceiling again. Glass table. Benitsubasa looking worried. Pearl-colored lighting fixtures. Windows. The cityscape below.

Higa had bolted from his chair.

"What happened?" he said. "Did Miya agree to the terms? Has Uzume double-crossed us? Did-"

"Time for Noritos," I said. "We're about to have company."


	18. Chapter 17

We watched the wall of computer screens. Each showed a different angle of our would-be intruder. A black void hung around her. Her sword was out, while the other hand clutched a sheath. Her knuckles had whitened, and the sheath's lacquer gave off a sheen under the street lamps.

Miya stepped through the first bounded field.

"Contact," said Kochou.

Green sparks flew. Arcs of energy crackled down Miya's body, bathing her like water trickling from a basin. Yet no smoke rose from her skin. The void that cloaked Miya flared outward. My thaumaturgical lightning dimmed, and then died.

Miya must have changed clothes when she'd returned her husband's remains to Izumo. Her traditional outfit - whatever Kochou had called it - had disappeared. In its place, she wore a black miniskirt, gray cloak, and double-breasted jacket that I recognized from Karasuba. Miya's old Disciplinary Squad uniform.

The cloak fluttered in nonexistent wind. Shadows crawled through the folds of her sleeves. No...not shadows. Emptiness. And yet she still strode toward the compound at a measured pace. Head up, eyes forward.

No matter. I'd poured considerable time, ingenuity, and prana into the second field - not to mention the area's own ambient mana - and had even customized it against Sekirei physiology.

"Contact with main bounded field in four...three...two..."

As it turned out, Kochou had miscalculated. Contact came a second early.

It looked like someone had ignited a warehouse of fireworks within a ten foot radius. Green, red, and yellow flared out of nowhere. The air hissed, crackled, and finally screamed. The paving stones beneath Miya's feet shattered. It was as if the bounded field was digging into the ground, trying to gain purchase to push Zero-One back.

As winds carried the cobbles away, the earth underneath was torn apart. Chunks of dirt the size of footballs uprooted themselves. When they passed near the arcs of energy, they were torn to dust, as if pulled between two magnetic fields. Those that struck the arcs directly were simply vaporized.

Miya's pace slowed. She lowered her head and took deeper steps. The motion resembled a woman pushing through a snow drift or blustering winds. She stretched out her palm. A black hemisphere formed.

Thaumaturgical lances wrought from lightning and fire beat away at Miya's shield. They prodded, punched, and probed. Dents formed. And yet, Miya trudged forward.

The black hemisphere shattered. I smirked and waited for the inevitable.

Globes of light exploded in her face. Knives forged from crimson light rained down. Winds bit, and cut, and wrenched at her purple hair. Her skirt tore. She stumbled. And again. Flames scorched her legs, and blackened any skin they touched. She was practically wading through fire now.

The bull and the matador.

A burning dart in her back. A lance of light through her chest. And yet for all that, the Disciplinary Squad uniform had held up admirably. Whatever MBI had made the thing out of, I now understood why she'd chosen to wear it.

Higa grabbed my collar.

"She's going to make it through!"

"Oh, no she's _not_."

I held up my fingers and snapped.

If you've ever seen ripples spread across the water, imagine the process in reverse. All along the bounded field's periphery, blue rings of light formed and raced inward. Miya's progress stopped. The air rumbled with the sound of thunder. Force lines formed a cage around Miya. There would be pyrotechnics. And they would be contained.

It happened quickly. An instant, really. Too short to see. I can only recount the aftermath: a smoking crater, red and molten for twenty yards around.

And the explosion had been silent. The final remnants of the containment field glittered in the air like blue fireflies.

"Oh, for the love of..."

Miya was still there.

She was burned, she was cut, and she was bleeding. More importantly than all of these, though, she was angry.

The world, in my experience, is fond of playing with loaded dice.

"All right," I said. "We have Noritos ready. Let's just wait for-"

With a lazy sort of motion, Miya swept her sword across the space in front of her. The air distorted. The wave moved too quickly to track it visually. I only saw its results.

Glass shattered. The lobby's metal frame sheared, bent, and crumpled. Rivets tore. Steel shrieked and groaned, and the granite cracked. The building shook as if it had suffered an earthquake.

I glanced at the lobby's cameras. Higa's security guards were dead. The wave had hit most of them directly. They were scattered about in varying degrees of dismemberment.

"Ichiya, Toyotama, Kochou," Higa said. "You will stop Miya."

Ichiya practically shrieked as she jabbed her finger at the screens.

"Did you _see_ that?" she said.

Higa pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, I did," he said. "And I need time to escape."

Ichiya's eyes widened. For the first - indeed, the only - time I'd ever seen it, her lip quivered slightly.

"Y-you don't mean that we're supposed to-"

"Ichiya," he said. "You and your sisters will die for your Ashikabi."

I am not sure precisely what it was about Higa's order that disturbed me. Perhaps it was the calm, collected way that he delivered it. Magus-like, almost...but only a regular person playing a magus. I've occasionally wondered whether it was simply the grotesque sense of recognition that I found so bizarre.

Or perhaps I'm not quite the magus that I like to believe myself.

Whatever it was, I found that I did not want to see the helpless, lost look that Ichiya gave her Ashikabi. At last, though, she straightened to attention.

"I...Of course, Lord Higa."

Kochou merely nodded.

Toyotama's reaction was somewhat different. It was a tentative sort of gesture; painfully so. An outstretched hand, grasping at Higa's sleeve.

"Just for a moment...I...Please, Lord Higa, just let me say goodb-"

He shook her off.

"_Time_, Toyotama. Get going."

She rubbed those beautiful blue eyes - the eyes I'd found so attractive, in a detached, aesthetic sort of way. A shame that they would probably be pulverized with the rest of her.

And so they went. Higa ran for the stairs. His Sekirei followed him, presumably to assume blocking positions.

"Meriwether."

"Eh?"

"Get going," Benitsubasa said.

"I don't know about _you_, Benitsubasa, but I prefer to wait for Miya to come to me rather than-"

Benitsubasa grabbed my shirt and shoved me against the wall. She was shaking. Unlike so many times in the past, I suspected that it wasn't from anticipation.

Oh, I knew Benitsubasa well enough to recognize that it wasn't fear for her own sake. The girl had the self-preservation instincts of an alcoholic lemming.

But for _my_ sake, on the other hand...

Sounds of slaughter came from downstairs. Benitsubasa's voice rose over them.

"I meant _leave,_" she said. _"_Higa's right. Go down the fire escape. Or use your reinforcement to jump out the window. Or _something._"

"You must be joking."

She nearly threw my back out of alignment when she slammed me into the wall again. It was the hardest I think she'd ever hit me.

"RUN, Meriwether!"

"An El-Melloi dies on his feet."

Benitsubasa's hand twitched. A tremor ran through her arm as she released me. She sank back.

"You're...the stupidest man alive. You know that?"

I smirked.

"And you've served me marvelously despite my faults. What sort of Ashikabi would I be if I let you die alone, eh?"

Benitsubasa rolled her eyes.

"You also suck at inspiring speeches," she said.

"I'm a realist, not a children's book author."

I kept my arms crossed behind my back. It wouldn't have done to let my Sekirei see me shaking.

"Meriwether."

"Eh?"

Benitsubasa put her hands on my shoulders. It was gentle this time. Barely a touch. She spoke quietly.

"I want you to listen to me, please," she said.

I heard a shriek from the stairwell. It cut off abruptly, followed by the sound of something thumping down the stairs. So much for Higa's 'escape'.

Benitsubasa rested her forehead against mine. Moisture from her eyes dropped onto my own cheeks. It was warm, and calming, somehow.

"I love you," she said.

"I...er-realize that you-"

"No," Benitsubasa said. "I _love_ you. I'm going to die protecting your sorry ass in a minute, so _listen to me_!"

"Ah...all right..."

"Humans can dance around things, or pick the wrong guy, or fall out of love. Or _arrange _a marriage, like your emotionally constipated parents want you to do. But I'm _Sekirei_. D'you get that?"

"But-"

She grabbed my hand and held it to her heart. Somehow, it didn't occur to me to complain that the gesture seemed overblown, or histrionic, or indecent. It simply fit, somehow.

"Shut up and listen!" she said. "All that crap that you humans spout in your love songs? It's true for us. Heart and soul. Forever and ever. Pick your cliche."

"You don't even _like _me, though-"

"You're a royal pain in the ass, yeah! So what? You're smart. You're _occasionally_ funny. You're a ruthless son of a bitch who kidnaps, blackmails, and _poisons_ people to win a game. And unlike every other woman on the planet, I think that's _smoking_ _HOT_, because I'm almost as much of a psychopath as you are."

"But-"

"You stood up to Karasuba to save me. You took on Minato in the girliest fistfight I've ever seen, just because you didn't want Kazehana to cut me up. You're about to _die_ with me. So yeah, Meriwether Archibald El-Melloi. I love you. And my body knew _exactly_ what it was doing when it chose you."

Her voice trailed off a bit. It was smaller now. She looked away.

"And...I know you don't love me back, okay? I-I've made my peace with it. But can you just...pretend? Just for a minute? Please?"

I found myself nodding.

Miya's sword rattled up the steps like a cup dragged across prison bars. I doubted anything short of a nuclear blast would blunt it.

Benitsubasa kissed me.

Her lips touched mine very lightly as she cradled my head in her hands. There was no exchange of saliva, or dental exam with her tongue, or anything of that sort. Just soft lips caressing mine, and a whining sort of moan as wings of light grew from Benitsubasa's back. My awareness of everything else vanished with the feeling of closeness to her body. And warmth. A hazy blanket over my senses.

When we broke, I found myself disappointed that it was over.

As I'd noticed before during Noritos, Benitsubasa's eyes were dilated, and her skin flushed. She had a contented smile that she might have worn when we were working in the safety of my workshop, instead of a wrecked building waiting to die.

Her face changed in an instant, though. Calm. Emotionless. Professional. Everything I'd ever asked of her. More's the pity.

"I'll hold her off," Benitsubasa said. "Charge up whatever you've got. I'll try to buy you time for a ten-count Aria, 'kay?"

"Benitsubasa-"

She put a finger to my lips.

"Later. Don't ruin my high. I might love you, but you're better at spoiling a moment than anybody I know."

And then, Miya opened the door.

Benitsubasa chanted her Norito. It was a bit like a two-count Aria, except for the magnitude of the change. Her pink gloves blurred. She grinned.

"Hey, Zero-One. What kept you?"

Miya gave a tight smile in reply.

Benitsubasa flew forward, fists swinging. Most were pulled before they reached their target, as Miya moved her sword into their way. The others missed. The air whipped through Miya's cloak with each blow.

As I have mentioned elsewhere, I am no expert in spiritual evocation. Some other spells, though, are another matter. Especially given sufficient time.

I started chanting.

_She has no strong white arms to fold you,  
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you  
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you... _

Benitsubasa batted a thrust away, her palm striking the flat of Miya's blade. And again.

Benitsubasa's foot lashed out. Miya lowered her head a fraction, and the kick passed over it. Rather than arrest the motion, Benitsubasa cross-stepped, approaching her opponent from the side. When her back had nearly turned, she thrust out her rear leg, adding a little hop for momentum. It did not land. Miya planned counterthrust stopped in mid-step, though.

My Aria continued.

_...Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,_  
_And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,_  
_Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—_

The blade flashed, and blood splattered on the carpet. Benitsubasa's arm hung at her side, dripping. Flecks of red flew each time she moved.

Benitsubasa leaped back, and then launched herself into the air in an upside-down pirouette. Her legs rotated like helicopter blades. It seemed both fiendishly complicated and impractical to me, but somehow she managed to land on the flat of Miya's blade. She flicked out her leg. Miya ducked and swung her sword into the wall in the same instant. Benitsubasa crashed through it.

I finished chanting.

_...Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.  
You steal away to the lapping waters,  
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.  
Ah, what is woman that you forsake her, and the hearth-fire and the home-acre, to go with the old grey widow-maker?_

Finally.

"Get back!" I shouted.

Benitsubasa jumped to the side.

Water spun in a cyclone above me. The wind that surrounded it glittered with shards of ice, each sharpened to a scalpel's edge. I poured everything I had into that spell; nearly all of my reserve prana. My circuits burned, and shrieked at me to stop. I kept going. The water roared above me, a tidal wave in the making. I pointed at Miya. A hundred tons of pressurized water, wind, and blades hurtled toward Miya.

She raised her sword.

The cyclone simply parted. Ice blades, high pressure water, and razor wind split down the middle where the metal touched it. Each half collided with the wall behind her with a deafening crack. They punched holes the size of locomotives.

I caught myself saying a word that no magus should ever say.

"Impossible..."

And Benitsubasa's Norito had run out.

What happened next was not the valiant, successful struggle of an outmatched everywoman against impossible odds. It was an execution.

Benitsubasa still moved faster than most humans could follow. It didn't matter. Everything was sluggish. Dodges came too late. Parries lacked force. One gash after another, Miya took her apart.

Benitsubasa froze, and looked down. Three feet of metal protruded from her chest. The blade was stained red when Miya withdrew it, and Benitsubasa dropped.

Benitsubasa's Crest vanished.

* * *

Suicidal behavior seemed to be contagious that day. I reinforced myself and swung at Miya as best I could.

She swatted me into a wall. I barely had enough prana left to prevent it from killing me outright. I tried to get up, but nothing wanted to cooperate.

Miya stood over me, and picked me up.

I had always imagined as a boy that I would face death with dignity. That I would set my jaw and gallantly stand in the face of overwhelming odds like the scion of a noble house that I was. Unflinching, carved of granite.

Instead, I heard myself giving Mia a sick, sobbing laugh.

"Go ahead," I said.

Miya's brows furrowed, even as her eyes widened ever so slightly. It probably didn't mean much in the scheme of things.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I said. "The Clock Tower's going to kill me. I've shamed my family. And you've just killed one of the few _people_ I've ever cared about."

And somehow, this was true.

Whenever the spirit of morbid curiosity strikes me, I run my speech to Miya through my mind. It is, quite possibly, the most senseless stream of words that has ever issued from my mouth.

In the grip of something monstrously inhuman, sane people feel fear. I'd felt it often enough in the past. And yet Benitsubasa's body had become a nexus of sorts in my mind; a bleeding astronomical phenomenon around which other thoughts orbited.

I leaned as close to Miya's face as the blade permitted me. The skin on my neck parted.

"Go ahead and kill me," I said. "My father's going to come looking for me with enough Freelancers to make the Sekirei Plan look like a bad joke. What d'you think the Clock Tower will do when _they_ find out? Eh? An alien race with _magic circuits_ in the hands of regular humans? They'll _take_ your foul, murdering species before MBI can make your existence public."

In my more rational moments, even I - no stranger, I am told, to hypocrisy - have reflected that 'murderous' seemed a trifle melodramatic from someone who would have gleefully dissected most of Miya's species. (Save one.) But then, I was not thinking terribly clearly at the time.

In any event, Miya smiled softly. The sword pricked my throat.

"Others have tried that before," she said.

"Ha! Hahaha! You actually believe that, don't you? You honestly believe that you're so mind-numbingly terrifying that...Do you even _know_ what exists beyond Shin Tokyo? I've met people who can reverse causality. Blow up mountains with a word. Raise the dead. Create private realities out of their own warped perceptions. Summon ancient spirits who can destroy _worlds..._I know a man whose bullets can flash-fry anything with prana. A man who, incidentally, killed his own _father_ to halt his research into vampirism. Oh yes, vampirism! We kill those, too. Our Enforcers exterminate things that would make your flesh _creep, _Sekirei. So go ahead. Sign your species' death warrant..."

At this point, it became obvious even to me that I was babbling. But I didn't care.

Miya smiled that polite not-quite-smile.

"I have a better idea," she said.

Miya dropped me - knowing, perhaps, that I couldn't move very far anyway - and thrust her hand into my pocket. It emerged with one of the parchments I'd used to make my deal with Higa.

…And I realized, to my surprise, that I was disappointed that she hadn't carried out her threat.

My eyes were moist, and my chest constricted. For some reason, though, I did not reflect on how unprofessional the whole thing looked, or how I should be ashamed of myself. The sensation was simply there, and it would never go away.

A girl I cared about was gone.

Miya pulled out a pen. It was marked with Higa's company logo, and I could still see blood on it. It was this final, twisted touch that sticks in my memory. Miya had stopped to collect a pen from Higa's corpse.

She wrote her terms, and ordered me to use whatever magecraft was necessary to make them binding.

"Oh, and Mr. El-Melloi?"

"_What?_"

"Don't forget that Matsu has kept me informed about MBI's translations of your books. Including those that discuss _geis _contracts. Don't try anything."

I will observe in passing that waiting to die is far easier than committing suicide by provoking your own execution.

At swordpoint, I signed them.

The contract's terms were as follows: I would conceal the existence of Sekirei from the Clock Tower. Not "do everything in my power to conceal" the existence of Sekirei. Conceal. Best efforts didn't matter. If I tried and failed, the consequences would be the same.

"You know, Mr. El-Melloi," Miya said, "I would love to kill you right now. But I think you've doomed my species anyway. I prefer watching your soul tear itself apart from the inside...and if you succeed, I'll probably kill you later."

And with that, Miya gave me a nod and walked out.

I slumped into the wreckage next to Benitsubasa's body. As I knelt there, I experienced an unwelcome feeling for the first time in years. Or an unwelcome thought, if you prefer.

I had absolutely no idea what to do.


	19. Chapter 18

I knelt next to Benitsubasa's body until the sun rose. The day passed. Evening came, and I was still there. And night again.

Hmm...

I heard the sound of MBI's helicopters. The windows were gone. Sunlight, dew, and bugs had invaded the former office space. Nature coming to reclaim its own, I suppose.

Right. The helicopters. My prana supply had not recovered by that time, but I had enough left to fire a blast of cold air. It nearly knocked one of them out of the sky. They kept their distance after that. It was blatant magecraft use by most standards, but I couldn't bring myself to care much. They would not take Benitsubasa away from me.

And so, I set to work.

Higa and his Sekirei lay at the bottom of the steps. The former Ashikabi of the East must have rolled a fair distance before coming to rest, since his legs were contorted at impossible angles. His head rested a bit further away.

Toyotama, Ichiya, and Kochou were in somewhat more intact condition, except for the pool of blood that glistened, semi-coagulated, on the floor. Perfect holes had been placed where their hearts had been, fractions of an inch wide and a body-length deep.

"You can fix this," I muttered. "Just like an exam..."

But it wasn't, really.

The building itself had become a grotesque mixture of open, twenty-first century furnishing and wreckage. I passed from carpeted hallways to bare wires, gushing pipes, and torn concrete - and back again.

Drag Higa's Sekirei up the stairs.

Slish.

Thump.

Slop.

Thump.

Drip.

Thump.

One. By. One.

I blinked. Someone had tuned my eyes out of focus and forgotten to fix them. I rubbed my face and felt dried sweat and grease. I unbuttoned the top of my robe. Not that it helped.

My muscles had a drained, hollow feeling. The pain in my stomach - very slight, but irritating - conveyed the lie that I was hungry. When it churned, I reinforced my limbs to finish the job. If reality believed that I needed to rest when there was work to do, then it was clearly mistaken.

Bodies...

Oh, I had _plenty_ of dead bodies. Besides the Sekirei, I mean. One could almost feel the ambient leftover thoughts. I picked a few spare pieces of consciousness and got to work.

Technically, the Clock Tower frowns upon human familiars. But then, _sentience_ does not always equate to "human", and the Sekirei fit nicely into that slot. Not that I would have cared overmuch about what my peers considered distasteful.

I needed fighters, and I needed someone who understood computers. So I'd make them.

First, though, I chanted the necessary Arias to preserve Benitsubasa's body.

Body, not corpse. Or so I kept telling myself. Sekirei are a durable species. Only a so-called Level 5 Termination will kill them, and I wasn't sure whether Miya's blade had done enough damage to kill Benitsubasa.

I hoped not. If I could revive her _and_ somehow reconstitute the Crest...

Not now. Preserve first. Plan later.

And so I preserved. Benitsubasa's slender, wiry, once-attractive body had already paled, but it would not decay. Not now, anyway.

When I'd finished the task, I created three new familiars from Higa's Sekirei. It took most of my remaining prana, but I repaired their hearts and muscles enough that they could do a passable imitation of walking. I'd heal them completely later, when I had more energy.

Morning dawned again. Day-without-food-and-sleep number whatever.

And now for the minds. I ultimately opted for a patchwork. Most of the pieces of consciousness came from Higa's Sekirei themselves, and the majority of the rest came from Higa. There was a certain poetic quality to the arrangement, I thought. Higa and his Sekirei reunited in death. Toyotama wouldn't need to say goodbye after all.

I stopped working when could feel prana flowing along a thread from my body to theirs. Like Benitsubasa, they did not consume much. And there ended the comparison between the girl who had fought by my side and these ghouls.

A new pain now bloomed in my chest - all the more bitter for being imposed, rather than chosen. For the thousandth time, I cursed myself for carrying the _geis _parchment in my coat, where Miya had taken it and forced me to craft my own cage with it. Not that it mattered now. I was going to kill the landlady eventually. Oh, _yes_.

But first, I needed Miya's help.

* * *

I carried Benitsubasa's body bridal-style, shielding her from what had become midday sun. Driving off MBI's troops had been, at best, a temporary solution. The Disciplinary Squad would come for her soon. And I hadn't even slept. How long?

I couldn't hide from their satellites. I couldn't fight them. Miya could.

She _wouldn't_ agree, of course, but I needed to ask just the same. It wasn't as if I'd lose anything by asking. My life, maybe. But that was already inevitable, one way or the other. I had no choice. And Minato was just the sort of compassionate imbecile that he _might_ prevail upon Miya to guard a wounded Sekirei. Despite everything that I'd done to him.

As the weight of Benitsubasa's body rested in my arms, I found that I almost admired Minato for his stupidity.

I walked the long road to Izumo. My new familiars hobbled behind me. I tried to play through a chess game in my head, but found that I couldn't keep the positions of the board straight anymore.

Ninety-eight.

Ninety-nine.

One hundred steps.

And start again at one.

Two.

Three.

We walked for a while longer.

The Inn came in sight sometime after I-didn't-care-when. And then, I stopped.

Stared a while.

"What the...?"

My familiars stopped as the prana flow abruptly cut off. I'd been inattentive. But then, I had cause for inattention.

Izumo Inn had been demolished.

Roof tiles were scattered throughout the area. The fence was broken, and the lawn was marred by gouges of dirt that one could almost describe as craters. The entire second floor had been sheared off, with only splintered wood remaining. I laid Benitsubasa's body on the ground.

I stepped through a hole in the fence. My familiars weren't combat-ready anyway, so I left them to shamble around outside. I was reasonably certain, though, that I could order them to evacuate Benitsubasa's body if I encountered trouble. Provided I stayed alive long enough to feed them prana.

The rice paper screens had either been smashed outright or punctured with quarter-inch diameter holes. The latter looked as if someone had fired an automatic weapon, except that I didn't see bullets. The latticed wood frames that had held the paper panes together were snapped.

It smelled of burnt turpentine and ozone. Something like that, anyway. Glass from the overhead lightbulbs had broken across the floor, where the remains of shattered windows glittered beside them. Yellow flowers from a broken vase were scattered. The water had already dried.

"Miya?"

Nothing.

"I want to make a deal. Hello? Anyone?"

No one replied.

"Whatever you want for keeping Benitsubasa's body safe. Really, anything. My negotiating position's very flexible at the moment."

I shoved a door aside. It had broken off its hinges, and scraped along the reed mats when I pushed it. While my footsteps did not echo, their sounds in that empty house were hardly cheerful.

"YAAAGH!"

Something hit me in the chest. Hard. It was white, and human-sized. Whatever it was, it caught me in the solar plexus. I barely had time to gasp for air before I was propelled over the table (a polished, rather angular modern piece held up by two triangular supports rather than by traditional legs, which-)

"Oomph!"

We landed. My assailant and I rolled onto the mats. He smashed a fist into my face. Pain flared. I tried to wriggle away, but he shifted his weight onto my chest. And kept punching.

"YOU WON'T TAKE KUSANO! D'you hear me?"

Sometime between blows to the head, I remembered that I could reinforce myself. I did so, and shoved him off.

...Only for something to wrap around my throat. Thick, whiplike cords wrapped around my arms and twisted them behind my back. Pressure built in my head. I could feel my eyes throbbing.

"ruuuiiighurk!" I said.

Or something to that effect. I admit that I'm not terribly coherent when blacking out from strangulation. I reinforced my neck. The cords just constricted that much more tightly.

"Kuu, wait a minute."

Perhaps I was a bit delirious, but I thought I heard an angry, childlike _"fuuuurgh!_"

The cords loosened. I collapsed gasping. Vines. They were vines, apparently. When I looked up again, I saw a rather haggard-looking Minato Sahashi. His white shirt had bloodstains and dirt on it, and was torn in one or two places as well. His hair was matted. This, in part, was probably due to the gash on the top of his head. His eyes had dark purple rings that could have come from insomnia, bruising, or both, and he was panting.

But what I noticed _first_ was the glare Minato was giving me. I'd never seen him glaring before. As I'd come to learn over the past few days, losing those closest to you does wonders for releasing hitherto untapped emotions.

"What do you want?" he said.

"What happened here?"

Minato's voice rose.

"You didn't know?" he said. "The Disciplinary Squad happened. Because you forced Miya to attack you. Now _what do you want?_"

"Do you want your girlfriends back?"

"I...what? You're asking me now to-"

"Because I want Benitsubasa back," I said. "Very, very badly. And I'm asking you to help me _take_ the means to revive our Sekirei from MBI."

Minato's hands clenched and unclenched as he continued to stare.

"That doesn't even..._WHAT?_ You terminate Tsukiumi, Musubi, Kazehana-"

"Will you help me or not?" I said.

"No!"

I gritted my teeth and tried to lean forward, but Kusano's vines pinned me there. The next words felt like bile as I tasted them, but never mind. It was necessary.

"Please help me," I said.

"You think after all you did-"

"I just lost someone I cared about very deeply," I said. "If you _don't _help, all of our Sekirei are going to become test subjects. Not to mention that Miya forced me to write a _geis_ contract to protect the Sekirei from discovery, so it's not as if I could betray you even if I wanted to."

"Wait, what?"

"_Please_ help me before the Enforcers find us. Because with the way MBI's running this tournament, it won't be long."

For all that Kusano's vines were tightening about my throat, I can honestly say that I wasn't terribly worried. Minato Sahashi was a fool. The sort of caring, morally upright fool that his irritating culture valued highly for reasons I've never understood.

But that probably didn't even matter.

If Minato had been a magus, he might have chosen revenge. Might. Perhaps. But Sekirei are a curious species. That insane, blind, one-sided love is not an easy thing to shake off. I hadn't managed the trick, at any rate, and I'm neither caring nor morally upright. Though I confess, at times, that I have played the fool.

Suffice it to say that Minato's choice was overdetermined.

"...All right," he said. "But your wizard-people aren't our first problem."

"What?"

"Karasuba has the Jinki," he said.

_What are the Jinki?_

The question had been festering in my mind for weeks. Months, really. And all I had was a vague prophecy of genocide, from a myth that even Ilya didn't believe.

And so I asked.

"What do you know about the Jinki?"

Minato closed his eyes.

"Before Matsu...well, she was terminated. Karasuba...she came to the house and-"

"While Miya was away?" I said.

Tactically, it made sense. Karasuba had attacked Izumo when the single power that could have stopped her was busy terminating Benitsubasa. That also explained Miya's absence from Izumo Inn: the polite, dainty, smiling landlady was on her way to massacre Karasuba and Co.

But _why_ did Karasuba attack in the first place?

Alas, Minato's answer only complicated matters further.

"Miya's dead."

"WHAT?" I said.

"Last night," Minato said. "Karasuba came with the other Disciplinary Squad members. Said something about Miya breaking the rules of the game by killing an Ashikabi. Since you're still alive, I assume Karasuba meant Higa."

I jerked my head in what might charitably be called a nod.

How on earth had Karasuba _managed_ that? I thought back to the burn marks, cuts, and other assorted scars that my bounded field had left on Miya's body. They had barely annoyed her. She would have had time to recover, as well. That death-filled bounded field would have recharged by the time Karasuba arrived. And with Homura still functioning, the Disciplinary Squad would barely have a numerical advantage, either.

"_How?_" I said.

When Minato shook his head, the light reflected from unwashed skin. Rather like mine, actually, but not quite as bad. He seemed to be looking at a smudge of dirt on his sleeve.

"I don't know," he said.

"I doubt that even Karasuba could have killed her one-on-one, so-"

Minato glared that unfamiliar glare.

"I said I _don't know_!" he said.

"Describe it for me."

He looked at the ceiling, moving his arms in a helpless, waving sort of gesture.

"It was like a Norito, I guess," he said. "But weird. Like there was this black halo around her. Not like Miya's demon mask, either. Black light, or electricity, or something. If that makes any sense."

Something cold and clammy began playing my internal organs like piano keys. The proverbial chill ran down my spine.

"Why do you say it like a Norito?" I said.

"Because Karasuba kept muttering something under her breath, over and over. Miya even taunted her about needing a Norito at first."

"At first?"

"It just kept _going_," he said. "Like she didn't need to worry about burning through energy. When she went after Miya, it sounded like somebody was shelling the place. Even Matsu had no idea what was going on..."

I nodded.

"That's because it wasn't a Norito. Or at least, not completely."

"Well, what _was _it?" he said.

I rubbed a hand on my face, willing my eyes to stay open. Did these people have tea? _Decent_ tea, and preferably not served in those absurd, handle-less cups? I'd even stoop to drinking coffee. Desperate times, and all that.

"I'll tell you later," I said. "You never answered my earlier question: what are the Jinki?"

"Matsu-"

"Yes, yes, yes...Matsu died," I snapped. "Tragic. And she told you something about the Jinki beforehand. Now repeat it to me and stop blubbering."

Minato's jaw tightened, and when he curled his fists I was almost curious to see whether he would hit me again. But no.

"The Sekirei landed a long time ago-" he said.

"Eight ships," I said. "Seven landed. Their crews intermarried with the local population..."

_Including my ancestors, _I thought with a shudder...

"...while the eighth group stayed in suspended animation until MBI defrosted them. But what does that have to do with anything?"

Minato sighed.

"The Jinki control everyone with Sekirei blood," Minato said. "Bring all eight Jinki together, and you can shut their descendants off."

"Shut them off..." I whispered.

Oh, I was awake now. I realized that I wanted to vomit again, but didn't have any stomach contents handy. Not because the revelation was particularly horrifying, mind. (Though it arguably was). And not entirely because I couldn't stop what was coming, or because I hadn't eaten for days, or because I was tired, or because I was sick, or...Well, I suppose each played a role.

I carried Sekirei blood.

Ergo, at least one of my parents carried Sekirei blood.

So I had a choice, didn't I? Warn them and watch my soul get ripped apart, or conceal the information and risk everybody dying.

Please note: There was no dilemma here. I knew what I would choose, and what it would cost. It just wasn't _fair_. Not that I had enough moisture left in my body to cry about it.

I closed my eyes and summoned my last familiar. It had been circling me from a distance for quite some time. I still hadn't sent a message back to my father. Now I would.

Pain bit through my chest as I forced a shaking hand across parchment. I would include a preface to (hopefully) derail some of the _geis's _resistance, but I doubted that the contract would tolerate my subtle evasion without inflicting consequences.

* * *

_To His Father Kayneth Archibald, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M. (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society; Meriwether Archibald, Unworthy El-Melloi Heir Apparent, Sends Greetings With Filial Contrition:_

_It is written, "De mortuis nihil nisi bonum." It is my hope that, after my own death, you will forgive me for what I have done._

_Before I begin, I must first explain that I signed a geis contract. I promised that I wouldn't reveal what I am about to tell you to the Clock Tower. What you do with this information remains, of course, up to your discretion, but I ask that you withhold it from the Authorities until I have failed. I would prefer not to die in the middle of an attempt to fix my mistake._

_I do not have long, so this message will be necessarily brief. A company called MBI has collected 108 aliens called "Sekirei". They bond to humans with a kiss. Once a Sekirei does so, the Sekirei can draw prana from the human in a kissing ceremony called a "Norito". _

_Unfortunately, MBI has seized my books, along with those of another magus. I suspect that one of the most powerful (surviving) Sekirei - a grey-haired sword expert named Karasuba - has used these books to modify the Norito ritual. Probably with Tantric magecraft. She has just used her newfound ability to kill something that the Burial Agency would have had trouble putting away._

_Worse, she has seized a group of artifacts called the "Jinki", which will kill everyone with Sekirei blood when they are united. It is a long story, but apparently I have some Sekirei blood myself, which means that either you or mother do as well._

_By the time this message reaches you, I will likely be dead. I therefore recommend that you contact Kiritsugu Emiya. I understand that you have worked with the Magus Killer in the past. His fixation on saving lives via murder fits our needs perfectly. Moreover, he lives in Japan. Somehow, I think he will come out of retirement for this party. It is as close as I can imagine to his dream assignment._

_One final note: Among the 108 Sekirei, you may find a pink-haired female specimen named Benitsubasa ("Number 105"). I am sure that you have the ability to revive her. As my final request, I beg you NOT to dissect, vivisect, or otherwise tamper with her. If possible, find her another human to bond with. Not a magus, please. _

_It is unfortunate that I will not live to see Karasuba's fried circuits. Feel free to indulge your curiosity to your heart's content with her. Oh, and give my regards to the Volumen Hydragyrum.  
_

_Finally, and with my sincerest apologies for the impropriety of setting it in writing, I love both you and Mother with all my heart. Goodbye, Father.  
_

_I remain your loyal (if incredibly stupid) son,_

_Meriwether Archibald, El-Melloi Heir Apparent._

* * *

I took a breath.

"Take this to my father," I said. "Give me enough time to start the operation first."

The bird nodded and flew off. I turned to Minato, rubbing my hands together.

"Now then," I said. "Let's meet up with your sister before we storm MBI, shall we?"


	20. Chapter 19

We arrived at Yukari Sahashi's residence that evening. It was at the end of a hallway with shiny wood floors and offwhite walls which, when combined with the dim bulbs, gave everything an orangeish tinge.

We must have presented the inhabitants with an unusual sight. I'd healed my new Sekirei familiars (and dressed them appropriately for once in their lives), but they retained a glassy, thousand-yard stare. Kusano toddled beside Minato while balancing a potted plant on her head. Neither Minato nor I had changed in a while. We probably smelled unpleasant. And of course, I still cradled Benitsubasa's body.

At times like this, I appreciated mental manipulation spells.

We knocked.

Yukari's white-haired, effeminate male (?) Sekirei opened the door. He froze in the middle of a polite bow to Minato when he saw me. His eyes widened. To my dismay, he wore the same frilly white shirt, bow-tied neck ribbon, and_ lederhosen_ that I'd noticed earlier. The outfit seemed rather crumpled, though, and his hair was a mess.

Like most Japanese living spaces, Yukari's apartment was cramped. A bottle of fruit punch rested on a glass-topped metal table in the center of the room, but the desk, floors, and bed were all in better taste, carved out of light-brown wood. Shopping bags were scattered everywhere. Oddly, a shower was connected directly to the main room. Only a curtain and glass wall separated the two. The shower contained several oddly shaped implements.

"Y-you..." the Sekirei said.

"Yes. Me. Good afternoon...Shiina, was it? We want to talk to your Ashikabi," I said.

"SHIINA! GET BACK HERE! I told you not to answer the door when we're having-"

Like her Sekirei before her, Yukari froze in mid-step when she saw me. This reaction, strangely enough, did not appear connected to the fact that she was wearing some sort of fetishized milkmaid outfit. She dropped her riding crop and stared.

Her scream came a second later. She posed, feet apart, and pointed her finger like some sort of deranged attorney.

"YOU!"

I turned back to the Sekirei.

"On second thought, you appear to be the brains of this operation. Might I prevail upon you to speak with me for a few-"

"SHIINA! Hold him down while I get my steel-toed boots!"

Shiina sighed. The clack of Yukari's stiletto heels echoed through the apartment as she rushed down the hallway to her room. At least, I _assumed _it was her room. Its closets were full of flowery dresses that seemed to fall suspiciously within Shiina's size range. I shall refrain from further comment.

"Mistress, are you _sure_ that's a good idea?" Shiina said. "I don't think we have enough birdseed and newspapers left after the last-"

"ENOUGH WITH YOUR DEFEATISM, SHIINA! BAD SEKIREI! VERY BAD-"

"The Disciplinary Squad's about to destroy the human race," I said.

Yukari poked her head out from behind the door frame. She appeared to be wielding a croquet mallet. A carrot peeler was held between her teeth.

"Hrrmph?" she said.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

"Minato? Perhaps you'd better...ah..."

"Right," he said.

The explanation took a few minutes, and hit most of the major points: the Jinki's ability to kill everyone of Sekirei descent, Karasuba's termination of Miya, and so on. I was rather pleased to note that Minato omitted some of the details of magecraft. Pointless, but good manners nonetheless.

"So Karasuba got hax powers by having kinky sex with her Ashikabi?" Yukari said.

Yukari's leer at Shiina did not escape my notice. Nor did the way that Shiina seemed to curl in on himself when he saw it.

"Er...basically, yes," I said. "But it shouldn't have been enough on its own, unless whatsisname...Natsuo was a magus himself. He simply wouldn't have had the power to fuel that."

Yukari _hmm'd_ and absently started fondling Shiina's chest. Presumably to facilitate speculation.

"Maybe Karasuba didn't use her Ashikabi for the energy, then," she said.

"But then who-"

"All of those disappearing Sekirei," Minato said. "Matsu said that unwinged Sekirei were just vanishing."

And in that moment, I realized that the Sahashi siblings were not as stupid as I had initially believed. Pathetic and insane, respectively, but not stupid.

It made _sense_. If Karasuba had indeed used the unwinged Sekirei as batteries (and was not averse to some very inappropriate behavior), she might have been able to amass quite a bit of prana. Enough to kill Miya.

Yukari gasped.

"Minato! We've gotta tell Mom!"

Oh, yes. Their mother worked at MBI, didn't she? And I doubted that Karasuba had acted with MBI's permission when she had initially stolen those books...

"She probably knows," I said.

"Then why didn't she _do anything_ when-"

"Karasuba can use basic magecraft now," I said. "And MBI is in the hands of a somewhat mentally unstable, suggestible, non-magus CEO. What do _you_ think happened?"

For some reason, Yukari's voice grew shriller. A curiously emotional reaction to news of Minaka's deposition, but never mind.

"Yeah, you keep _saying_ that Karasuba can use magic, but where's your proof? Huh? She _couldn't_ have done anything to the Chairman! And he's not _crazy_, just a little...um..." Yukari said.

I snapped my fingers. My newly acquired "hacker" stood to attention.

"Kochou," I said. "Access MBI's satellite footage of the battle between Miya and Karasuba."

Yukari's computer booted up with a whirr. A flurry of keystrokes later, an image appeared on screen.

* * *

_Miya stood on the porch, sword in hand. Her pleasant smile was no longer in evidence, though I noticed she wore the same traditional white and purple pseudo-robe I'd seen earlier. _

_Karasuba leaned on the fence's gate. Two Sekirei flanked her. The blue-haired Sekirei wrapped in bandages I'd met already. The other I'd only noticed peripherally earlier, when she'd escorted Karasuba to my burning house. She had short brown hair, and had a Crest on her forehead.  
_

_Karasuba's lips moved. _

My "hacker" spoke for her. Fortunately, Kochou proved a competent lip reader. Karasuba's words came out of Kochou's mouth almost naturally._  
_

_"Well, well. It's been quite a while, Zero-One. I hope you've learned a few tricks in the meantime..."_

_Karasuba smirked._

_"...because I certainly have."_

_A vortex of black energy swirled around her as she advanced. The sword came out. Miya's sword left its scabbard a moment later._

_"MBI's Dog is not welcome at Izumo," Miya said. "And your Norito won't change anything."_

_Karasuba's smirk showed teeth. Her normally sleepy eyes were open now._

_"I think you'll find that MBI's Dog is holding her own leash these days, Zero-One."_

_A gout of flame erupted between them. Homura walked out of the doorway beside Miya. Fire danced between his fingertips. Karasuba merely clicked her tongue, and the remaining Disciplinary Squad members charged at him. _

_Karasuba's lips were moving rapidly. Kochou's "translation" kept pace._

**_I am my pact's promised blade. Let me empty the world. _**

**_I am my pact's promised blade. Let me empty the world. _**

**_I am my pact's promised blade. Let me empty the world. _**

_Miya's bounded field covered the yard in darkness. Demon masks jibbered and screeched. Corpses appeared, floating beside their murderer. The gutted warship was closer now, hovering where the sun should have been. More bodies hung out of it._

_Karasuba sucked air into her teeth, as if drinking the darkness. Black sparks shot up and down the length of her blade. And she smiled. _

_"Goodbye, Zero-One."_

_Her boots ripped the ground apart as she launched herself at Miya. Miya's sword met hers as she dug her feet into the earth. The blow pushed Miya back, folding up the house's exterior wall as it drove her through it. _

_Miya counterattacked. I do not pretend to be an expert on Japan's two-handed school of swordsmanship. I can only say that the cuts and thrusts blurred into a single stream around the combatants. Whatever techniques they were using, they executed them with machine-like precision. Parries finished before the eye could properly register them. Thrusts stopped instantly, as soon as the attacker realized they would land a millimeter short. _

_Shiina told me later that Karasuba was the faster of the two. I couldn't tell, to be honest._

_The two tore holes in the yard. Miya jumped back, and a shower of gravel rained down. She swung her blade. The air warped. I wondered whether it had made the loud crack that comes from breaking the sound barrier. In any case, Karasuba met Miya's shockwave with a black vortex of her own. When the two collided, the blast filled the entire area with light. The screen went white._

_I blinked. The light dimmed.  
_

_Miya's bounded field had ripped, and sunlight streamed through. _

_Karasuba's blade spun. If anything, it moved faster now. Miya set her jaw and charged again. _

_Parry. Clang. Swipe. Dodge. _

_And so on. _

_Miya frowned. I checked my watch. Karasuba's "Norito" had already lasted seven times longer than Benitsubasa's longest attempt during our experiments. And it was far stronger than any Norito I'd ever seen._

_Boots and wooden shoes danced elaborate patterns in an ever-deepening crater. A stray wave of energy ripped off the building's roof. Thousands of pounds of wood, furniture, tiles and glass exploded to fragments. A powdery fog settled over Izumo._

_Karasuba's grin kept growing. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. That ashen face had become flushed, and her shoulders rose and fell in gasps. She was not tired, though. It was almost as if she was reacting._

_Cut._

_Miss._

_Cut._

_Blocked._

_Slice._

_Remarkable, really, how a single slip can end things. _

_In one moment, Miya was a purple-and-white blur. In the next, she lay neatly bisected on the ground. I had not thought her capable of the look of surprise that had spread across her face. Her eyes became cold and empty. The remains of her bounded field flickered. And then, they died with her. _

_Karasuba was still crouching where she had finished her charge. Her sword arm was outstretched and bloody. She raised an eyebrow and stood up, walking toward Miya's body. I imagined the squelching sound her boots must have made when she prodded the body. It did not move._

_She closed Miya's eyes with her hand. A nod followed. Not a full bow, though._

_Homura was already dead, lying in a pool of red water. Haihane's blades and the ice shards from the strange Sekirei with the crest on her forehead had each left their marks. _

_But Homura had not apparently gone down without a fight. Half of the ice-wielder's body was charred. Haihane's left arm was also blackened, and the blades in her left hand had melted.  
_

_"Grab the Jinki," Karasuba said. "The pervert hacker has the last one."_

_Haihane winced and cradled her arm. She opened her mouth. Karasuba looked at her, and her mouth closed again. Haihane nodded and staggered inside._

_Karasuba knelt, and began tracing letters in the dirt with her sword. It was a narrow, jagged sort of penmanship despite the unwieldy instrument. The marks glowed. _

_My computer Sekirei did not recite the spell itself (for several reasons), but reported what Karasuba said afterward:_

_"And now, nothing will ever grow here."_

_She closed her eyes and smiled. It was soft. Peaceful._

_"Akitsu," she said._

_The Sekirei with the crest on her forehead looked up. She had been nursing her burns with ice. _

_"...Yes, Karasuba?"_

_"Find Takehito's remains," Karasuba said. "IF the Jinki can resummon him, I'd like to experiment a while before I exterminate humanity."_

_"Yes, Karasuba."_

_She disappeared inside. _

* * *

Kochou stopped the recording.

"Well?" I said. "Does that answer your question?"

Yukari nodded.

"Good," I said. "Then let's-"

Both Sahashi siblings' phones rang - Yukari's with one of those abominable 'rap' songs, and Minato's to a collection of beeps that sounded like it came from a "Tele-Video Game".

A picture appeared on both of their screens.

A Sekirei sat in a high, winged chair. A sword rested on her lap, clutched in thin, calloused hands. Her cloak fanned out around her. When combined with the seat back, it gave the impression of a bat's wings.

"Good evening, Ashikabis and Sekirei," said Karasuba. "This is a message from MBI's new Game Mistress."

"That...can't be good," Yukari said.

"It has come to my attention that one of the contestants has been withholding his Sekirei from the collection teams," Karasuba said. "We also have reason to believe that he's planning to storm MBI. Most likely with accomplices."

Shiina swallowed audibly. Minato stiffened. And I admit to feeling none too calm myself. Yukari, on the other hand, actually seemed angry.

Karasuba grinned.

"MBI is prepared to offer a reward for their execution," she said. "Any Ashikabi who brings us the heads of one or more of these individuals can stay with his Sekirei _forever_."

Our faces flashed across the screen, one by one. Along with Yukari's address.

"...Right," I said. "We're _leaving_."

I ran through my plan in about thirty seconds. I would cast an invisibility spell on Yukari, Shiina, Minato, Kusano, and my two Sekirei familiars (along with myself).

While we sneaked into MBI (or tried to), Kochou would wander around Shin Tokyo in a _separate_ invisibility bubble. As a "Brain Type", she could synchronize with electronic devices telepathically. She would hack into MBI's satellites and blind them, while providing us with as much intelligence as she could.

At this point, Minato phoned an Ashikabi named Seo.

Minato _claimed_ that the fellow was reliable, and had two lightning-wielding Sekirei to boot. Seo offered to serve as a diversion. Minato agreed. So far, so good. I'd welcome help if this 'Seo' person actually came through. In any event, I wasn't giving him _our_ position, so no harm done. I grabbed the phone before Minato could explain where we would be located. And crushed it.

"Time to go," I said.

I threw open the door. Toyotama and Ichiya were already assuming positions at either end of the hallway. Not long now.

I pulled out the knife that Benitsubasa had given me during our "lessons". I was still awful with it, mind you, but it was better than nothing.

Speaking of Bentisubasa, I supposed that I would have to take her body with me. It was either that or lay it somewhere out of harm's way as soon as the satellites went down, but I didn't want to take the chance that MBI would find her. Even with an invisibility field, I didn't want to risk it. That, and I could only revive her with MBI's equipment. If I could _just_ sneak into the tower itself, I could at _least_ revive Benitsubasa long enough to order her to escape.

"Meriwether," Minato said.

"Eh?"

"Why are you involved in the Sekirei plan?"

"That's none of your business," I said.

Minato grabbed my shoulder.

"See, no," he said. "It _is_ my business, because I'm going out there with you. I don't want that knife of yours in my back."

Well, well...a little backbone after all. I reinforced my arm and pulled it away.

"I'm dead anyway," I said. "Whether it's Miya's contract, or Lady Barthomeloi, or Karasuba, or my own father."

"That doesn't answer my question."

I ground my teeth. We reached the first floor steps. Toyotama pushed the door open. Quite hard, actually. It clanged when it hit the bricks.

"I'm here for two reasons," I said. "First, to save whichever member of my family gave me Sekirei genes. Second, to save Benitsubasa. The rest of you can go drown yourselves as far as I'm concerned. Is that _satisfactory_, Sahashi?"

"Yeah," he said. "_Satisfactory_. Barely."

"Then let's stop wasting time."

* * *

**A/N:** Just noticed that I'd accidentally turned the "enable anonymous review" feature off. It's back on now. Sorry about that.


	21. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Huzzah! Passed 100 favorites.

And on that note, Postnuptial Disagreements has a TV Tropes page now. I was tempted to fill it in myself, but I'd _vastly_ prefer to hear readers' opinions (as opposed to mine) on the story structure, characters, what works, and what doesn't. Anyway, thought I'd mention it.

…

…

…

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Shin Tokyo's streets were quiet. Oh, I grant you that the birds still fluttered, and the occasional car drove down the intersections, and even that you could hear air conditioners humming from the windows, but it was almost deserted outside. Traffic lights changed for bare streets. A newspaper blowing across our path like a tumbleweed emphasized the situation rather picturesquely.

No fools, these people.

"You're _sure_ MBI's people can't see us?" Yukari asked for the twelfth time.

"Yes."

"Or hear us?"

"Again, yes."

"Or smell us? I mean, you and Minato are pretty ripe right now."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, they can't _smell_ us either, Miss Sahashi. Now if you could please be quiet and let me concentrate on maintaining the invisibility field, I'd _appreciate it_."

"Or-"

"If they could hear us, DO YOU THINK I'D BE SHOUTING AT YOU TO SHUT UP?"

A few blocks away, a thunderclap. Minato's Ashikabi friend must have started his diversion. The night sky lit up. And in a curious reversal, we watched arcs of lightning in the distance lashing upward. Toward the sky.

"Right," I said. "Run."

We dodged lampposts, each other, and the edges of my invisibility field as we ran. Our footfalls on the concrete echoed within my field, but not outside it. Something seemed vaguely off about the streets that night. As I pumped more of the chilly evening air into my lungs, I realized what it was. None of us cast shadows. Odd, really, how irrelevant commonplaces can distress one by their absence.

"_Stop!_"

The Sahashis and their Sekirei skidded to a halt at Yukari's shriek. Shiina grabbed my shoulder. For a moment, the beginning of a snarl worked its way into my throat. And then, I saw the crowd.

Ashikabis and Sekirei loitered perhaps twenty yards away from our position. A female in a red leather bodice and elbow-length gloves tossed a halberd into the air. It spun like a helicopter blade, and then descended. She snatched it with a lazy, elongated motion, like a fisherman casting a net in reverse. Moments later, it flew up again.

A youngish-looking man leaned against a lamppost, stroking unruly strands of his Sekirei's hair. Neon signs reflected in his square-rimmed glasses. His Sekirei was short, and wore a tight, almost open-chested outfit. Something rather like a bladed fork hung on her back.

As for the others, a James Dean impersonator in a tight black shirt had a Sekirei with tufts of hair resembling cat ears, and a bikini that appeared to be made out of strips of nylon. A bit further away, a Sekirei in an ankle-length dress (finally!) tested her katana's edge on her finger.

An emaciated-looking, gray-haired male in a cloak sat beside her. He was tearing off pieces of the curb with his fingers and flicking them against a wall. The impacts had already chipped a hole. A blonde female in a headband tilted her head toward the spectacle and rolled her eyes. Another Sekirei with "44" on her sweater nodded with a sigh.

Sadly, a blade buried itself in my torso, cutting off the inspection rather abruptly (if you'll pardon the pun).

I screamed and fell forward. This time, the sound did not echo. I saw my shadow writhing on the wall, clutching at the thing protruding from my back.

Moving illusions are difficult to maintain at the best of times. When one is also engaged in supporting three Sekirei familiars while trying to strategize _and _trying to ignore several days without sleep, this effect is compounded.

My illusion dropped. The robe had become warm and wet. I pulled the blade out with another gasp and channeled as much prana into a healing spell as I could. The knife glinting in my hand was short and triangular. It was almost like a Japanese throwing-star except for a vestigial hilt.

I threw Benitsubasa's body as far as I could from the battle. I hoped that it would be far enough.

Naturally, a second knife struck my shoulder. A shock of pain and adrenaline pulsed up my arm. I spun around.

A Sekirei in bandages grinned. Her hair completely covered her left eye (she had caked more eyeliner on her right eye most stage actresses). But what I noticed _first_ was the pair of heat vision goggles that she'd just removed. She raised her blade-gauntlet and waved.

"Yo," she said.

I pulled out the dagger and tossed it away. It probably clattered, but I couldn't hear it over the sounds of clashing steel, breaking concrete, death vortices, out-of-control vine growth, whistling blades on the ends of chains, a quarterstaff cracking skulls, and Yukari singing some sort of war song in mangled English.

Lightning, fire, and beams of energy flared in the night. Everyone was bathed in weird light and shadows.

"_Haihane?_" I said.

"Yeah...funny thing," Haihane said. "I don't even specialize in throwing knives."

Well, this could have gone better. And if one member of the Disciplinary Squad had already appeared, it was only a matter of time before the others joined them. We needed to finish this _soon_.

_It is always a temptation _

_For a _-

"AAAGH!"

A third knife cut off my Aria. I reinforced my legs and jumped away just before Hainahe's gauntlets closed. They made a snipping sound where my head had been. Haihane jumped from one wall to the other like a cross between a gibbon and a spider. Somehow, her feet kept their purchase despite crouching at nearly ninety-degrees. Her burns from Homura were gone. I could only assume that the Disciplinary Squad had exploited MBI's medical facilities to the fullest.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a Sekirei in a blue, puffy dress send Minato flying. His body rolled until a wall stopped its motion. Stopped, but did not cushion.

Minato's body went limp.

Wonder of wonders, I heard Yukari's shriek of rage over the pandemonium. She leaped at the Sekirei's throat, alternately punching her in the face and trying to gouge her eyes with the other hand. I admit that I couldn't quite suppress a feeling of admiration for the little lunatic. Shiina touched the Sekirei's crest while she was still distracted. The Sekirei slumped.

Yukari kept punching.

And once again, I realized that my attention had wandered. Sleep deprivation, no doubt. Unfortunately, I only came to this conclusion when another knife had shredded my forearm. I bit my lip and tried - with limited success - not to scream.

I retrieved my own knife from my coat and lunged. Haihane jumped aside with the same relaxed smile and caressed my shoulder. The blades tore.

"AAAH!"

I dropped. Haihane kicked the weapon from my hand and put a foot at my throat.

"Well," she said. "I guess that's all she wrote."

I wrenched the blade out of my own forearm. (Which _hurt_, incidentally). Before Haihane could react, I jammed it through her foot, reinforcing and healing my neck as I did so. It cut me a little. Haihane's foot fared rather worse. She hissed and hopped back. Alas, I was too busy feeling my neck burning in agony to appreciate it.

"Owww...Son of a _bitch_," she said.

As soon as my vocal cords healed, I chanted a short wind Aria. It was just enough to blow Haihane's hair into her eyes. I shoved her through a shop window.

...And ducked just in time to avoid a halberd swung at my head. Whatever wood and glass hadn't already broken from Benitsubasa's impact went flying. The crash was even louder than expected.

That red-haired Sekirei in the bodice again.

I reinforced my arm and tore a parking meter out of the sidewalk. I swung it. The Sekirei caught it as if I'd just tried to hit her with a fly swatter. My blow's momentum dug her feet into the asphalt, but this was the extent of the damage.

She smiled and twisted her arm. I tumbled into another parking meter.

I stole a glance at the rest of the combatants. The results were hardly encouraging. More Ashikabis and Sekirei had arrived from the surrounding streets. Kusano lay face down in a puddle, her blonde hair spattered with mud. Shiina stood over her. He fired off those decay fields as fast as he could, but they were getting fainter. Minato was bleeding. I noted with a surprising amount of relief that he was still breathing.

I followed the lines of prana to my Sekirei familiars. Toyotama was gone. Ichiya was still fighting, her legs whirling like pinwheels as she lashed out against two attackers. I felt her pain throb from twin holes that the bladed fork had inflicted. The fork-wielder herself was undamaged. She had not escaped retaliation, though. Her Crest was gone. The reason lay a short distance away: her Ashikabi's head had been cracked open by one of Ichiya's kicks. The neck was contorted.

Traffic lights illuminated the scene in alternating red, green, and yellow; a blissful pattern uninterrupted by the battle. I am sure that with less noise, we could have heard the surviving lamps humming.

Ichiya tripped over the body of a blonde Sekirei, who had dressed in what looked like a Jazz Era evening gown. The stumble lasted only fractions of a second, but it sufficed. Another Sekirei drove a katana through Ichiya's heart. When she pulled it out again, the force of the recovery almost split Ichiya in two.

I choked on blood. It was becoming a disturbingly frequent occurrence.

This...was wrong. I'd made mistakes. _Of course_ the Disciplinary Squad would use heat vision, or night vision, or whatever it was called. Kiritsugu had used the same trick against my father's invisibility field during Heaven's Feel.

Glass crunched. The corseted Sekirei rolled her halberd's haft down the length of her arm. She brushed red hair from her eyes.

I scrambled up. As it turned out, it wasn't necessary.

* * *

The Sekirei looked down.

A silvery tentacle protruded from her chest, pooling and oozing like molten glass.

_"Scalp!"_

And then cut her in two.

The two pieces dropped to either side, revealing a tall man in a blue robe. His hair was gray and combed back in a style that wouldn't have looked out of place in the late 80s, but he stood straight as a ramrod. His hands were clasped behind his back. He did not look happy.

A blob of mercury roughly the size of a table sat beside him. The _Volumen Hydragyrum._

"F...father..." I whispered.

Kayneth Archibald, First Lord El-Melloi, did not reply.

The mercury snapped up, reshaping itself from a blob to a hollow hemisphere. A moment later, a dagger on the end of a chain clashed against its surface. Before the dagger could glance off, though, the mercury liquefied around it. It absorbed the weapon like an amoeba eating its prey.

The attacking Sekirei was dragged along with it.

She was blonde, with wide blue eyes and strand of hair that had apparently resisted her attempts to comb it. Her dress's shoulders may have been puffy at one point. Now, the extra fabric merely stuck to her shoulders from sweat. She tugged frantically - and in a random, uncoordinated fashion - at the chain.

But the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ did not wish to eat her. Or even drown her, for that matter. It just wanted to close the distance.

My father stroked his chin as he watched the blob's razor whips tear the Sekirei apart. She flailed, and screamed. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ did not share her biological limitations. It merely cut in a surgical, detached way that reminded me of my father in his workshop.

Wherever the Sekirei punched or kicked, the mercury gave way. Like a stream meeting rocks, it flowed around her attack. It stabbed and sliced from angles that she'd never encountered. Mercury, you see, does not have bones.

At last, the Sekirei just lay there, moaning and gagging. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ kept opening new wounds to the night air.

It stopped.

My father watched the Sekirei in silence. She gave a choking whimper. Almost lazily, my father pulled out a tape recorder from his robe and turned it on. Even Lord El-Melloi had accommodated somewhat to the march of time.

_Click._

"Note seventy-nine," he said. "This 'Sekirei' does not appear capable of significant regeneration during combat. End note."

He switched the tape recorder off.

_"Scalp."_

I was almost relieved when the whimpering stopped.

The rest of the battlefield had fallen silent. Perhaps a dozen pairs eyes stared at the tentacled silver thing and its master. There were murmurings.

"Father?" I said. "Er...I mean, Lord El-Melloi, I still have enough prana left for mental manipulation spells to cover all of this-"

"_Silence_, Meriwether. You will not speak unless spoken to. Understood?"

I bowed, or at least gave as close to a bow as I could manage with several half-healed holes in my body.

My father turned to the crowd with a thin smile.

"You know, _young_ people these days are rather fond of memory tampering," he said. "I imagine that those integrationists' nonsense lies at the root of it, somehow..."

My father stepped forward. The _Volumen Hydragyrum _oozed after him. It moved in a two-part motion rather reminiscent of an earthworm. Indeed, slimy garden invertebrates must have been uppermost in my mind that night, since the _Volumen Hydragyrum's _forming-and-retracting tentacles also reminded me of a snail's stalk eyes.

"...As luck would have it, though, I'm a bit of a _traditionalist _when it comes to witnesses."

A tentacle shot out. It grabbed the bladed fork from the ground. In the same motion, the tentacle looped around and hurled it. The tentacle elongated as it threw, imparting momentum in the same way that a sling or _atlatl_ might.

With a thump, it hit an Ashikabi. He dropped. The Sekirei with catlike tufts of hair and a black strap bikini collapsed a moment later.

Father's tape recorder clicked.

"Note eighty. Sekirei and Ashikabi appear very intimately linked. Sekirei's termination followed her Ashikabi's death almost instantaneously. End note."

That decided it. While their Ashikabis continued to stare, the Sekirei attacked.

A Sekirei with a katana cleared almost twenty feet in a single jump. Her long black hair whipped around her shoulders. It even continued fluttering when her head fell to earth, severed by a combination of the _Hydragyrum's _tentacles and a disc of ice that my father had cast. And he hadn't even _gestured_. His hands remained behind his back as he muttered his Arias.

But he was burning through his prana. It flowed by the ton from his Thaumaturgical Crest, feeding the _Volumen Hydragyrum _the energy it needed to keep up with its opponents.

A Sekirei with a mop of white hair shed his cloak. He looked more like a boy than anything. His lean arms actually reminded me a bit of Benitsubasa. He wore a black elastic top with a cut-out to display his abdomen, which called to mind once again the fact that Sekirei, as a species, needed to develop nudity taboos.

_"These are the palms of my pledge. By my bare hands, destroy the foes of my-"_

_"Scalp."_

The mercury sprouted serrated whips. And then, its task accomplished, it morphed into an umbrella shape. Just in time to shield my father from chunks of Sekirei.

I imagine that an element-wielder or two could have blasted their way through my father's pet. A single number like Homura probably could have reduced it to vapor. By and large, though, our enemies had chosen to bring fists, katanas, and knives to a sentient-blob-of-mercury-fight.

My father wiped sweat from his forehead. And the prana continued to deplete.

I realized two things that night.

First, it dawned upon me just how powerful a magus my father really was. I'd known - intellectually - that he stood among the greatest magi of his generation. Now, I saw it. Sekirei prana manipulation had appeared almost effortless to me. My father was making them look like first-generation magi. And they _weren't_.

More importantly, though, I realized that I would need to do everything in my power to keep him away from Benitsubasa's body. And I wasn't sure _how_.

Metal cords lashed out. The _Volumen Hydragyrum _formed a shield. The blow glanced off, but I felt the surge of energy as my father pumped prana into his pet to deflect it. He was gesturing now. Something akin to a compressed hurricane threw the offending Sekirei at a building. Her body crashed through the other side, and kept going.

By now, Haihane had pulled herself up. She brushed the hair out of her eyes with bladed fingers, barely noticing the cuts they left. One of the blades pressed a (surprisingly durable) button around her wrist.

I reinforced my ears and listened. It wasn't as if I could do much more than that, since I doubted my father would have appreciated interference.

"Uh, Karasuba?" she said. "Remember the fight you wanted to have with the souped-up wizard people?"

The microphone warbled in response.

"Yeeeahhh...They're here. And I'm thinking Meriwether's an amateur. We're gonna need Akitsu."

My father pinned two Ashikabis together with an eight foot icicle. The finished product looked rather like a toothpick skewering olives. Three Sekirei deactivated. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ looped itself around another Sekirei's neck and garroted her.

The microphone warbled again.

"...Um, just a hunch," said Haihane.

More Sekirei were approaching. My father chanted. Fog began rising.

Haihane caught my eye. She grinned, tilting her head toward the alley where I'd tried to hide Benitsubasa's body. Haihane shouted across the street to me.

"Oi, kid! Thanks for Number 105! We'll take _goooood _care of her."

I felt a cold, rotten, _foul_ sensation gripping my chest. In a particularly stupid moment (amid a growing collection of stupid moments), I drew my knife and headed toward Haihane...and her group of newly-arrived Sekirei.

My father grabbed my shoulder.

"_Meriwether._ We. Are. Leaving."

"But Father, Benitsubasa-"

I didn't even see the mercury tentacle that hit me.

At least, I _infer _that it hit me, because I remember floating alongside a pair of chopped-up Sekirei bodies a little while later. And so I flickered in and out of consciousness, carried on a silvery liquid bed. Lulled, no doubt, by a sleeping spell as well.


	22. Chapter 21

I suppose I can't fault my father for his tactical retreat, though I could have done without the blow to the skull.

Several hours must have passed.

I woke up in a hotel room. Or a series of rooms. It had all of my father's usual traveling amenities: marble counters, gold leaf hastily added to strategic points in anticipation of his arrival, a desk made of Brazilian rosewood, and forty shelves of books - these last transported, no doubt, by suggestible porters.

The television had been removed. Part of the blank space on the wall had been filled by two _Portolan _maps, replete with crisscrossing black lines, compass roses, and faded inks.

Walls and walls of leather and parchment greeted my eyes. My father had once opined, with my (unsolicited and indifferently received) agreement, that an author's craftsmanship should demand proportionate sacrifices from the bookmaker.

Printers are the greengrocers of literature. It is telling that the advent of the printing press did not primarily bring an explosion of scientific work, but pornography. (Not to mention the once-useful spells that had been reduced to mere curiosities by diffusion.) I am informed that it is now possible to submit one's work to the Internet for publication - a process that does not, as far as I can tell, involve peer review. I can only weep for what remains of our civilization when this practice becomes widespread.

Original Arabic-to-Latin translations of _De Anima,_ the _Prior Analytics,_ and Averroes took pride of place on the bookshelf, alongside Xenophon in his original Greek. They rubbed shoulders with medieval herbals. Sacrobosco's _Tractatus de Sphaera_ waited by the bed lamp. Stuffed into one of the drawers was the lost folio of prophecies from Hildegard of Bingen, the abbess mystic whose spiraling visions historians still dismiss - with a myopia typical of their kind - as migraine symptoms. I'd enjoyed them as a boy.

Housed in an agate box secured by silver and mother-of-pearl clasps was another book. My father had acquired it after Heaven's Feel. Sometime before final sentencing, some enterprising magus had rescued one of Gilles de Rais's spell books from the flames. Sadly, it was the Wormius translation rather than the original.

A cadaver caught my attention.

What had once been a Sekirei lay on a steel table. Half of its organs had been removed and carefully placed in Father's faience canopic jars - an ironic gift from Estray, but useful for storing prana nonetheless. Tools glinted: scalpels, saws, hooks, and several more specialized implements made of alchemically synthesized substances.

Odd...the body had once belonged to the black-haired katana expert, but I couldn't stop thinking of Benitsubasa when I looked at her. The skin was gone. The detached, magus part of me noted with interest that Sekirei musculature was nearly human except in one or two minor details. Vestigial wing muscles on the back, for instance.

Yet even the magus part of me seemed curiously hesitant to stare for very long. While my father watched me in silence, I tried to look at everything _but_ the body.

Lord El-Melloi sat in a winged leather chair, his feet crossed. He looked up from Horapollo's (fraudulent) treatise on hieroglyphs, folding a pair of spectacles and handing them to the _Volumen Hydragyrum_. A mahogany case bubbled up from the mercury. The case clicked when it closed.

"Somehow, the revelation of your Japanese ancestry does not surprise me," he said. "Your mother's side, no doubt."

I wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so I dipped my head as obsequiously as possible and hoped for the best.

"Well?" he said.

I swallowed. Unfortunately, I seemed to have slept just enough to adequately foresee several unpleasant endings to this conversation.

"I...um..."

He snapped the book shut.

"_Explain_, Meriwether."

I silently begged my muscles to relax as I cleared my throat and started talking.

"Er...hem...Lord El-Melloi...as I mentioned in my letter, Miya's _geis _contract will probably kill me if the Clock Tower finds out about this."

He nodded.

"Very likely."

"Ahem...yes," I said. "And given the prohibitive costs of a cover-up, I believe that the most sensible course of action would be to turn me over to Lady Barthomeloi for execution."

"Turn you over to the Clock Tower?" he said. "That's your solution?"

His fingers squeezed the book's spine until it cracked. Sensing a more than ordinary amount of displeasure, I spoke quickly.

"You will naturally want to sever all ties with me," I said. "And I'll do likewise with our family. This would preserve both you and Mother from disgrace while eliminating an embarrassing blot on the El-Melloi -"

A white-hot pain slashed across my cheek. The _Hydragyrum_. I barely avoided crying out, although my nerve endings did their best to correct this oversight.

Oh, I'd received _far_ worse over the last few days. It still hurt.

My father remained seated, his fingers threaded over his broken book.

"You're my _son_, you little imbecile."

"But I...Wait, what?"

"I've called Skeares and Ardendolff. We're covering this up."

When I started muttering a healing spell, though, (and felt the itch of my skin growing back), the _Hydragyrum_ clubbed my other cheek. I didn't quite see stars, but it would certainly bruise. One of my teeth was loose. I'd heal it later, of course, but the point stood...

My father had apparently not finished speaking.

"And I'm afraid, my less-than-satisfactory son and heir, that your actions have caused your parents no small amount of worry over the last few days," he said. "It is fitting that you should share our discomfort. Though it is regrettable that I should have to _resort_ to this."

On cue, my cheek began throbbing. So painfully, in fact, that I suspected some sort of nerve manipulation.

"We had great hopes for you," he said. "Despite your disgraceful lack of dedication, you clearly possessed - indeed, _possess _- the talent of a great magus. Certainly moreso than the cannon-fodder who would ordinarily clean up a mess like this."

The pain from the _Hydragyrum's _mark came in waves. Each crest felt a bit like I'd used a hot stove for a pillow. Had I been a bit more lucid, I might have reflected (but not mentioned) that my father's comment seemed rather insensitive to the other occupant of the room:

Kiritsugu Emiya.

The Magus Killer wore his traditional ensemble: black trenchcoat, black suit, and a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Unlike so many of his kind, he hadn't killed for the fun, or the money. At his core, the Magus Killer was an eccentric sort of Benthamite. He would kill one to save ten, and ten to save a hundred.

He'd been among the last Masters standing in the Fourth Heaven's Feel. (My father does not count, since his own Servant had died rather earlier). While the Archibalds and Tohsakas had sent brilliant magi to win Heaven's Feel (and the Matous had sent a photographer, for some reason), the Einzbern family had taken a more sensible approach. Heaven's Feel had been a thaumaturgical murder tournament. Ergo, they'd hired a hit man.

They'd even given him one of their homunculi as a wife: a beautiful albino named Irisviel. I comment on her appearance not because I met her, but because I met her daughter.

But this _particular _hit man had been a bit...unusual.

The winner of Heaven's Feel would have received a prize: a single wish from an artifact of incredible power. Most magi would have wished for a path to the Root. Though I'd never asked, I'd always assumed that my father would have followed the same pattern. The Matou fellow presumably would have wished for a more expensive Polaroid.

Kiritsugu, though, had wanted to save everyone from dying.

Alas, Fate is fond of unnecessary pain. Kiritsugu's wife had been a vessel for the wish-granting device. To cut a long story short, the device had been corrupted. No one had noticed in the beginning. By the time it had become obvious, though, only a few Servants had remained.

Irisviel had already begun coughing up black mud at that point. She hadn't survived.

More than twenty-five years had passed since the Fourth Heaven's Feel. The Magus Killer was a bit older, a bit grayer, and his face bore a few more wrinkles. But as I'd suspected, he couldn't resist the lure of that _last _job. Save millions. Redemption, in a way, for Heaven's Feel.

My father tapped a finger on his armrest. Pain bored through my skull.

"I'm particularly curious about precisely _why_ my son did not reveal this tournament to me," he said. "Especially when it started spinning out of control. Which, incidentally, has jeopardized our entire civilization."

"I..._agh_...Please, Lord El-Melloi, j-just let me-"

"I am _most_ disappointed that you have forced me to discipline you in this manner. Bear in mind that I dislike this as much as you do."

Another stab of pain. Imagine the worst migraine possible, and then begin increasing it by orders of magnitude until your head starts oozing brain matter.

"Surely any _sane_ magus would have reported the loss of his library at MBI's hands," he said. "And this business with the Jinki...if Sekirei genes have spread far enough, the Counter Guardians may well obliterate Shin Tokyo. I can't imagine why the son and heir _I_ knew would have...huh..."

He stopped, and raised an eyebrow. The pain ended. My wounds healed. I basked for precious moments in the cool sensation of recovery.

"...Tell me about this 'Benitsubasa' creature," he said.

"She's...not important."

A gloved hand rose to his chin.

"You've always had a weakness for non-humans, haven't you, Meriwether? Oh, not the specimens on my operating table, of course. But you _still _get along rather well with _Ilya_."

His tone, as you have probably gathered, was not complimentary.

I should note at this point that mentioning Ilya in this fashion was hardly atypical. My parents had met Kiritsugu socially six or seven times in the preceding decade. (Unavoidable with Kiritsugu's connections to the politically important Einzbern family, and even moreso given their forced collaboration during Heaven's Feel). Most of these meetings had consisted of my parents politely implying that Kiritsugu should kiss their feet, and the Magus Killer politely ignoring them.

But even in the midst of an approaching apocalypse, my father knew better than to repeat the "homunculus halfbreed" comments I'd heard in private. Not with Kiritsugu in the room.

The edge of my father's mouth twitched.

"Meriwether, my boy...I've hit upon the perfect penalty for you," he said. "I believe you could use a little paternal _tutelage_."

_What?_

___...Oh, no._

_Please, no…_

"As soon as we put Karasuba down, you and I shall dissect our first magus-bonded Sekirei. 'Benitsubasa' will doubtless provide insight into non-human prana manipulation…"

He was _almost_ smiling.

"…A foolish name, by the way. You should have given her a more traditional _Western _pet's name. 'Lady', or some such. I'm told that 'Annie' is popular with dogs these days."

Strangely, I did not experience a surge of panic, or a feeling of loss. Instead, a rather atypical thought crossed my mind, right down to its colloquial phrasing:

_Over my dead body_.

But it was the Magus Killer who spoke.

"We'll have to kill Karasuba first. And I'm not sure why she hasn't triggered the 'Jinki' already."

Kiritsugu leaned against an empty television stand. It was piled with papers, including several sheets of spidery script and gallows letters that appeared to be some sort of translation key for the Voynich Manuscript. Dee's scrying crystal (the original, not the replica at the British Museum) held it in place like a paperweight.

Kiritsugu peered down the barrel of his Thompson Contender. It was an ugly-looking, single-shot pistol with a wooden stock and hexagonal barrel. Even the trigger guard carried a protrusion that resembled a barb. For all its ugliness, though, it was also one of the deadlier Mystic Codes.

Its magecraft-enhanced frame could handle the recoil from rifle bullets. And the bullets themselves carried ground-up fragments of his ribs. Whenever they hit magic circuits, they warped and fried them.

He clicked the barrel open and shut.

Ticking accompanied the sound.

A replica of Harrison's nautical clock marked time - a mess of brass, bulb-shaped weights, and springs. It was floating in midair, careening first to one side and then the other. I later concluded that this had something to do with my father's longstanding contention (expressed in several ignored letters to the publishers) that a recent popular history of navigation had erred in its account of the clock's accuracy when tilted.

Another clock, this one heavy with prana, marked the actual time. Its gears gave a substantial sort of _thwunk_ instead of the usual ticking.

"Karasuba's waiting for us," I said.

Both men looked at me.

"This is her finale," I said. "We've just showed ourselves worthy of her attention. So to speak. She won't use the Jinki until she's killed us."

Kiritsugu nodded. I suppose he'd dealt with magi long enough to understand that sort of mentality. My own father _still_ regretted never facing Kiritsugu during Heaven's Feel.

(Given that my father's original _Volumen Hydragyrum_ hadn't even been able to block rifle bullets unassisted, I was rather less sanguine about his prospects).

My father smirked.

"Then we'd best knock on her front door," he said.

I found myself wondering whether Karasuba would have reacted to him if he'd arrived in Shin Tokyo instead.

Before he left, my father grabbed a few supplies for one last trick. Most of them had come from his office at Euryphis. The Spiritual Invocation Division.

I just hoped that he'd stay clear of Karasuba. With the greatest respect to my father, I did not believe that he could have beaten Karasuba with a year to prepare. Not if there were two of him.

* * *

I will not bore you with the details of our journey. The streets remained deserted, and the other Sekirei did not interfere. We headed for MBI's main building. It was, ironically enough, a clock tower. A helicopter shadowed us. It did not fire. The air still carried a morning tang.

We hit the first wrinkle a bit later.

MBI's remaining soldiers had thrown up barricades in front of the main building. Men knelt with automatic weapons. The cluster of camouflaged uniforms seemed out of place on the asphalt, like a group of migratory bushes. Behind the men waited armored cars. Their turrets sported some very large automatic cannons.

My father retrieved a few items from his valise. Years' worth of accumulated gifts, projects, and weaponry were about to go up in smoke. I felt a vicarious pang of regret - irrational though it might have been - for casting it all aside. Heirs can be replaced, after all. Mystic codes often cannot. Some of them may have been with him during Heaven's Feel. A few probably dated back even further.

"Good _morning_, gentlemen," he said.

My father stepped toward the soldiers. He held his hands behind his back. I took some satisfaction in the fact that he intended to lose it all with a certain flair.

"Normally, I have nothing but contempt for the pandering 'fantastic' fiction that you people write to escape your empty lives..." he said.

Step.

Step.

Step.

"...Yet it may surprise you to know that magi are not immune to certain...shall we say, guilty pleasures..."

The whips of the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ twined and writhed like some nighmarish, silvery sea anemone.

"...Take my son, for instance. According to the familiars I assigned to spy on him as a boy, it seems that he was a Lovecraft aficionado. We cured him of that, naturally..."

The wind howled. My father's robe fluttered around him. The soldiers fired. Mercury flattened into a dome-shaped shield. As bullets ricocheted, my father's voice amplified, booming over the sound of gunfire. He swept his arm toward _Volumen Hydragyrum's _coils.

"...Indeed, if I shared my son's questionable tastes, I might even have deigned to unleash this tentacled monstrosity on you..."

The mercury whips twitched. Gunfire continued. I heard the pneumatic whirr of one of the infantry fighting vehicles' turrets as it rotated. In a few moments, the automatic cannons would train on us.

"...But as it happens, ever since my introduction to the genre during my university days..."

Shrouded figures appeared in the air behind my father. Strips of their black robes floated and billowed as if they were underwater. Their moans chilled blood. They hissed, and the smell of decay wafted over the battle ground.

Wraiths. A rather special, customized group of wraiths.

"...I prefer Henry James."

With an unearthly shriek, the wraiths descended on the soldiers in a wave. They simply flowed through the barriers, armor, and everything else. The sky glowed a sickly orange. Screams provided accompaniment. A few men with wide eyes tried to scramble from their vehicles. One poked his head out of a turret hatch before getting pulled back inside. The hatch closed.

I turned away. It is not pleasant to watch wraiths do their work. With all the grace of a private military contractor at a Fabian Society convention, I seized upon the first point of conversation that had presented itself.

"Father, I hope you will honor me someday by telling me about your experiences during-"

My father fixed me with a glare that would have frozen molten glass.

"No. And if you mention a word of that speech to your mother, you'll wish I'd turned you over to the Clock Tower."

"Yes, Lord El-Melloi."

"And in any case, I - _duck!_"

An ice spear flew at him.

He pushed me aside.

The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ dutifully flattened and expanded. Large quantities of prana poured into it in an instant. The Sekirei that had launched it stood on a telephone pole, watching us. I recognized the Crest on her forehead. Akitsu, I believe they'd called her.

The spear punched through.

It caught my father in the chest. A red mark bloomed until it covered most of his torso. Even with his reinforcement, the projectile sent him tumbling across the pavement.

I am not sure how Akitsu did it. Perhaps it was some insane sort of reinforcement. Perhaps she could pour prana into her ice shards in the same way that my father manipulated the _Hydragyrum's _mercury. Regardless, I should have expected something like this. Homura, after all, had been chopped to bits by Akitsu's ice. And he had survived my alchemy lab.

More ice spears flew. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ changed tactics. It swatted them out of the air, parrying rather than blocking. The ice in my father's chest melted. Time seemed to reverse itself as his blood flowed back into his chest. For just a moment, he grinned at the Sekirei who had attacked him.

Another spear penetrated the _Hydragyrum_. It pierced his leg, pinning him in place.

And then, the barrage began.


	23. Chapter 22

Akitsu's ice fell like bladed rain. To abuse an already overused word even further, it was _inhuman_. No magus could have done it so effortlessly. The shards felt more like frozen glass to the touch. Or diamonds. For a magus, the prana cost would have been enormous.

Far later, I learned that Akitsu had once been a single number. But her power had overflowed. She had "self-winged", a process that had simultaneously imprinted a Crest on her forehead and deprived her of a chance at an Ashikabi.

At the moment, though, I was rather more focused on her endless stream of ice daggers. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_'s tentacles shimmered as they batted them away. Some smashed into glittering vapor. Others bounced off intact, embedding themselves in buildings or streets. Glass, cement, and even pavement fractured.

Kiritsugu grabbed my arm and began pulling me toward the MBI Tower. His other hand twitched on the Thompson's trigger guard.

"What are you doing?" I shouted.

My father's gestures had begun to resemble an orchestra conductor's. The larger spears whistled around him like artillery shells. They exploded with almost as much force. Every so often, a fragment would rip through his coat, painting a red gash. Just as quickly, the blood would splatter backwards. Flesh reformed again and again.

A losing battle.

"You can navigate the MBI Tower through your link with your Sekirei familiar," Kiritsugu said. "We need to get to the Jinki NOW. Your father'll handle this one."

I pulled back, trying to break his grip. With my free hand, I pointed at the ice bombardment.

"Are you _insane?" _I said.

I began chanting an Aria. Kiritsugu jerked me forward. I nearly lost my footing.

But it was Kayneth Archibald, First Lord El-Melloi, who decided matters.

I met my father's eyes for only a moment. A shard had cut his forehead, and blood was still flowing down his face. The image has stayed with me for years: green eyes embedded in glistening red.

"_Move_, Meriwether!"

He turned to Akitsu again. And for all the blood loss, the obvious pain, the prana drain, and even his foe's seeming endless reserves...my father was grinning. There was something oddly magus-like about that battle. The combatants fought it face-to-face, each revealing their Mysteries as it wore on. Somehow, my father's Aria carried over the cacophony.

_Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener_  
_courage the greater, as our might lessens_

I recognized the fragment. My father had translated it from Anglo-Saxon during his own childhood. When I was five, he had recited the poem in its entirety at the dinner table, much to my delight. (My mother had rolled her eyes, but no matter.)

It had come from _The Battle of Maldon_. The fragment had been a death prayer of sorts. An Anglo-Saxon _eorl's_final plea for bravery as he watched the Danes approach.

I stopped struggling.

Kiritsugu let go.

"Good luck, Father," I whispered.

Unbidden, though, a more troubling fragment bubbled up through my mind:

_Two thousand pounds of education_  
_Drops to a ten-rupee jezail_

Kiritsugu and I ran for the MBI Tower.

Yet I watched over my shoulder for as long as I could. My father's arms slashed from one side to the other, summoning hurricanes that blew Akitsu's ice daggers away. A tidal wave formed in an instant. It warped into a horizontal typhoon when the winds caught it.

The funnel crashed against Akitsu's wall of ice. The wall held.

The ground beneath Akitsu exploded. Water from the city's underground pipes blasted toward her in a concentrated stream, orbited by whips. She dodged. The water snapped the telephone pole.

The Sekirei landed, and glared. Water dripped from her uniform. I noticed swirls of blood in the puddles. More ice spears flew.

My father was gasping now - a sight I'd never witnessed. And yet, I thought I caught a smirk when he raised his own ice shield. Hardly up to Akitsu's standards, but it gave him enough time to duck. And he'd made his point.

Another rain of spears followed.

We turned a corner. I lost sight of them.

* * *

We entered a lobby with tan walls.

A gate stood at the room's far end, at least thirty feet tall. It was made of a greenish metal that I suspected was a copper alloy. At its head, its creators had carved a Sekirei Crest in relief. It was a silhouette of a bird sitting on a yin-yang, orbited by teardrops.

Lines radiated down from it. I was suddenly reminded of Akhenaten's solar imagery, right down to the angular style of the art.

We took the stairs. Kiritsugu was running. Even with my own reinforcement, I had trouble keeping up. For near-sexagenarian smoker, the man moved like Jesse Owens.

The floor opened under me with a pneumatic hiss.

"AAAH!"

I slipped. Kiritsugu grabbed my shoulder. I teetered on the edge of a bed of spikes (yes, you read that correctly) that _someone_had decided to place under the floor of an office building. Minaka, presumably. He'd seemed a few pebbles short of a pyramid.

When I'd finally steadied myself, my blood was flowing faster than the _Volumen Hydragyrum_through one of Father's experimental mazes. Kiritsugu nodded to the hallway ahead.

"Keep running," he said. "It burns off the adrenaline."

And so we did. One after another, we passed hallways made of teal-colored stone. The blocks were five or six feet wide, and uniformly cut.

"Meriwether."

"What?"

"Your father said we should remove his Thaumaturgical Crest if he dies."

My first instinct was to scream in Kiritsugu's face that my father _wouldn't die, and how dare you imply otherwise_...and so on. But the First Lord El-Melloi had never cared for useless sentiment. Individuals did not matter. The family's legacy did. And so I played my part, as Father would have wanted.

My facial muscles smoothed, or tried to.

"I...of course," I said. "For the next heir, no doubt. If we survive, I'll convey it back to whomever my family chooses to succeed him-"

"For you."

"You can't be serious."

Kiritsugu flicked a cigarette into the corridor. His eyes remained straight ahead.

"He said you're still his heir. Not a great idea with that _geis_contract on your head, but it's not my business. No offense."

"None taken."

...Mostly because I agreed with Kiritsugu's assessment. In the abstract, anyway. The rest of my body was of a rather different opinion.

I have not cried many times in my life. And sobs are not easy when your legs are burning from an apparently endless sprint. But I felt my breath catch. Nor was the salty substance running down my cheeks all sweat. A rotting sensation ate through my chest.

I'd never wanted to kill _anyone _more than I wanted to kill Akitsu in that moment. Except maybe Miya after her battle with Benitsubasa.

But something else distracted me.

Flame erupted from the walls. Dry heat blasted my face. Kiritsugu rolled under the flames in a sort of somersault. He slapped the floor as he finished .

Just in time. A second after he'd crossed, the rest of the walls began belching fire.

My own passage was rather less graceful. I pulled my collar over my head and crawled. Sweat flowed from every pore, but the cloak's fabric protected me. A wind spell provided me with just enough oxygen.

Smoke stung my eyes. I was forced to close them. And so I made my way through a stifling, baking darkness.

One arm in front. The other beside it. Legs push off. Crawl forward. Repeat. Cough. Feel the smoke needling your lungs. Cough again.

And I was through.

Kiritsugu pulled me the last few feet. I rolled over and hacked until I was blue in the face. The respite - if you could call it that - did not last long. We kept running.

RUMBLE.

"What the...?"

RUMBLERUMBLERUMBLE

We both turned.

"Is that...a boulder?" I said.

"So it appears."

An eight foot wide, suspiciously spherical boulder rolling down steel steps. The office workers must have walked right under the thing every day when they'd scurried to their cubicles. Kiritsugu leaned against the wall. Another in a seemingly endless line of cigarettes emerged from what I'd begun to suspect was a Mystic Code.

"Meriwether, if you'd do the honors?" he said.

Oh. Right. He wasn't an element specialist.

My Aria spilled out in something less than perfect verse. In fairness, it wasn't in its original Greek, anyway:

_They loosened the wallet, and all the winds leapt forth; and swiftly the storm-wind seized them, and bore them weeping out to sea, away from their native land._

In a second or two, streamers of wind and water sliced, permeated, froze inside, broke apart, and re-sliced the boulder into a rock pile.

We sloshed through rock dust and slush. This did not improve my temper, although Kiritsugu didn't seem to mind. Which also did not improve my temper.

Our already surreal mission took a turn for the incomprehensible when a line of hurdles rose from the floor. Nor do I use 'hurdles' in a loose sense. These were the same three-foot, striped hurdles that one would normally encounter at a track meet. Kiritsugu's lighter flicked as he raised an eyebrow. Slightly.

"Well...that's different."

I felt my fists clenching. I spun around, looking for the security camera.

"You think this is a _joke_, Sekirei?_" _I shouted.

Silence.

I am not accustomed to anger. This was an exception. While I still fault myself somewhat with the benefit of hindsight, I never shared the Magus Killer's stainless steel mind. One might even say that after weeks of being bludgeoned, bullied, and beaten within an inch of my life, I was feeling more than a little agitated.

I took a deep breath.

"I'm afraid you have it _reversed!_" I shouted. "Do you _know_my family? Our assorted branches thrived despite James I's witchcraft laws, Robespierre's Terror, an affair with Lord Byron, the Anti-Masonic party, officious Mandarins, declining profits from the United Fruit Company, the Mutiny, ill-advised expansions in suffrage, the Daniel Home scandal, Irish immigration, the Golden Dawn, the Crash of '29, the House Un-American Activities Committee..."

Silence. Except for my own voice, which was rising. And after my recent smoke inhalation, I was feeling a bit hoarse, too.

"...Boss Tweed and his blasted gutter-democracy, those confounded laws against using Pinkertons on strikers (doubtless devised by those same muddle-headed Tammany people), Lloyd George's socialist tax schemes, Thule Society assassins, the Mau Mau, shut-downs in the Lowell mills, that nonsense in Rhodesia - yes, I _still_call it Rhodesia - the OPEC embargo, cradle-to-the-grave healthcare, Heaven's Feel, Kotomine Kirei, the King of Heroes, the Magus Killer, the Wonga Coup investigation, and recently Sekirei Zero-One."

Silence. And Kiritsugu just kept flicking his blasted lighter.

"We make cockroaches look fragile," I said. "And when my father finishes off Akitsu - which he _will _- he's going to turn your body into a_ footnote _in a _research paper!_"

When I still didn't receive a reply, I screamed a final, inchoate lump of vowels. A tidal wave formed. It roared through the hallway, its crest forming a fist. Water smashed the hurdles into kindling and twisted metal.

I stood there panting, my arm still outstretched. It dawned on me that my monologue had been an inadvertent Aria. I racked my brain for what I'd said.

Something else seized my attention, though.

The far wall hummed, and opened. I heard footsteps.

_Click-clack._

_Click-clack._

_Click-clack._

"Well, well...with _that_kind of introduction, how could I not come to greet my guests?"

Karasuba walked toward us, the perpetual not-quite-smile on her face. Still confident, apparently. Or at least her eyes were still half-closed. She rested her hand on her katana and looked straight at Kiritsugu.

"So...you're the infamous Magus Killer? Oh, no need to look surprised. You were mentioned in one of those books. Briefly. Pity...I could have used an Ashikabi like you."

Kiritisugu tossed away his cigarette and stopped leaning on the wall.

"I don't think so," he said. "Karasuba, is it?"

She nodded.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he said. "We didn't get along."

Karasuba sucked air between her teeth. A grin split her face. Her eyes opened, and her voice acquired a lilt.

"An _idealist_murderer, mmmh? Just like Yume. You're making me all nostalgic..."

Her sword came out. The Thompson Contender and a machine pistol followed them by only fractions of a second. Kiritsugu's trenchcoat billowed in suitably dramatic fashion.

"...Oh, I'll _enjoy _this," Karasuba said.

The Magus Killer did not take his eyes off of her.

"Meriwether," he said.

"Eh?"

"Find the Jinki."

"But-"

"Go."

I ran.

But I had no intention of leaving myself ignorant of the result. Kochou had hacked into MBI's security cameras earlier. I shut out all but the most essential sensory inputs, and focused on the visions she sent me through our familiar link.

Not that it would _change_ matters, but I prefer to keep informed. MBI had even helpfully equipped their cameras with audio equipment. And Kochou's perceptions through them - as befitted a technology Sekirei - were thorough.

* * *

_Karasuba charged. She seemed faster in the confines of MBI's halls. She must have tantrically charged herself for a while. _

_"**Accel**," Kiritsugu said. _

_Time manipulation had been the Emiya family's specialty. The greatest achievement of the father Kiritsugu had executed. The skill had once promised an escape from death; a gateway to eternity. Now it served as a weapon. _

_Karasuba ran along the wall - for no reason, as far as I could tell, except that it looked impressive. The Magus Killer's arm blurred. His machine pistol rattled as it drew a line of bullets along Karasuba's path. The sounds of gunfire, ricochets, and chipping stone echoed through the hallway. Very loudly._

_...But not quite as loudly as what followed._

**_I am my pact's promised blade. Let me empty the world. _**

**_I am my pact's promised blade. Let me empty the world. _**

**_I am-_**

Karasuba swung her sword. A wave of black energy crackled toward Kiritsugu.

_"**Double Accel.**"_

_He jumped aside. The time distortion around him intensified. Karasuba's blow struck too late. The wall exploded. Sunlight streamed through a haze of powdered stone and mist from broken pipes. _

_BOOM!_

_The Thompson Contender caught Karasuba in the leg. Alas, it hadn't been loaded with an Origin bullet. The Magus Killer had started his career with a little over sixty of them. I doubted he had many left by this point...which, come to think of it, partly explained why he hadn't fried Akitsu with one. (That, and the fact that it would have given the game away to the Black Sekirei)._

_Karasuba's wound healed. She laughed._

_But he'd hit her. _

_The Contender clicked open. Kiritsugu reloaded while he ran, firing his machine pistol as he did so. The Black Sekirei ducked, coming in low with her sword. In what must have been history's first (and only) example of pistol fencing, Kiritsugu blocked the slash with his Thompson Contender. He emptied the rest of his automatic into her face. _

_While fiendishly durable, Sekirei are not known for their regeneration. I'd rarely seen fights where their limbs regrew. Judging from the fact that they seldom bruised when punched by the equivalent of a machine press, I suspect that the prana cost was too high. Yet Karasuba's face reformed. Bullets dripped out of her skin. _

_"Nice try, human."_

_She was breathing heavily. But unlike Kiritsugu, she was not tired. I'd seen it far too often over the past few months. In the Miya fight, I hadn't been sure. Now I was. Somehow - I didn't know how, except perhaps as a side-effect of the tantric ritual - Karasuba was reacting despite her winging. _

_Not that it seemed to have impaired her abilities. And I seriously doubted that Kiritsugu could have kissed her even if he'd noticed (or replaced her Crest if he had). I note the phenomenon merely to impress upon my readers that Karasuba was a prime candidate for psychological treatment. A lobotomy, perhaps._

_Her blade cut, and stabbed, and probed. It looked like a glittering stream. A miniature Hydragyrum in midair. _

_Kiritsugu Emiya was wilting now. Even with two decades' worth of extra refinements (not to mention Kiritsugu's careful rationing thus far), his time magecraft was taking its toll. I could see his body breaking down. _

_Karasuba faked a lunge. The Thompson barked. It was an Origin bullet this time, and struck the point she had occupied moments before. Kiritsugu barely stumbled away from her riposte._

_"I wonder..." Karasuba said. "Do you have Sekirei blood, Magus Killer?"_

_At first, his face remained blank. Yet I could imagine the wheels turning as her words penetrated. When his eyes widened - if only fractionally - Karasuba laughed._

_"Ahhh...you have children, don't you?" she said. "I wonder what'll happen to them when I use the Jinki?"_

_He replied with more bullets. When the firing stopped, I heard a metallic sound. He'd thrown something. The Black Sekirei jumped aside, just before she was engulfed in sound and shrapnel_.

_The machine pistol clicked. Kiritsugu threw it. Karasuba sliced it in half without breaking stride. And then, she sliced the halves in half while they were still airborne. Four pieces clanged on the ground._

_Another grenade exploded. Karasuba jumped away with a neat little pirouette. She hurled a wave of black energy. More fragments of architecture found themselves hurtling across the hall. In that confined space, the shock of the explosions must have been extremely unpleasant._

* * *

It was at this point that I realized she was toying with him.

Fast and experienced though he was, Kiritsugu lacked the durability to keep up with her. Unless he hit her with an Origin bullet...but that window was rapidly closing.

I shut the vision off.

Find the Jinki, then.

_Where do I go? _I thought.

_Probably left from here,_Kochou's thoughts replied.

_PROBABLY?_

_I'm a computer expert, not an oracle._

I reached a hall with a gray floor and walls of the same teal-colored stone I'd seen earlier. Indeed, it was unremarkable in every respect, save two: its occupants. One wore a fresh set of bandages, finger blades, and a black dress that had been cut into so many strips that only the bandages covered her body up.

The other was Benitsubasa. Still motionless. Haihane supported her body on one arm, her bladed fingers dancing dangerously close to the throat.

Haihane pressed a button on her wrist.

"Heh...welcome to Mortal Kombat," she said.

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

Steel walls descended around us, sealing the hallway off from the rest of the building. They appeared to be several inches thick. A steel box.

"Sooooo..." Haihane said. "Here's the thing. You guys've put me in a little bit of a pickle. See, if _you_win, I get dissected by your dad's Terminator blob. If Karasuba wins, Earth's combined governments wipe us out after she does her genocide thing. Or Karasuba just kills me before she uses the Jinki. For no apparent reason."

I pointed at the steel walls.

"So what's the point of all this?" I said.

Haihane shrugged. Her blades pricked Benitsubasa's neck.

"Orders, for one. Karasuba might kill me a little later if I do my job. Not that it's my _main _reason, but hey. Whatever."

_Kochou,_ I thought. _What on earth are you doing? I want these walls gone NOW!_

_Keep her talking_, Kochou replied. _They're connected to MBI's private system. I'll see what I can do._

I sighed.

"Er...you were saying, Haihane?" I said

She scratched her head. And winced when the blades poked her.

"Well...I just want a good _fight_before I go out, y'know?" she said. "Heck, that's why I joined this outfit. And I'd prefer taking out my frustrations on the stupid bastard who started all this."

I felt a sinking sensation.

"Er...In that case, I'd appreciate it if you allow me to remove Benitsubasa's body first," I said. "She was your squad-mate once, if I recall."

Haihane chuckled. Her voice was rather deep and grainy for a female Sekirei.

"Nah," she said. "If you hadn't come along and _royally _screwed things up, Benitsubasa would've tried to kill me eventually. She wanted Natsuo to herself. Think of her body as the prize if you win."

Well, she was straightforward, at least. Finally.

And to Haihane's credit, I found myself _quite _motivated. I drew the knife I'd received from Benitsubasa several months ago. I'd sharpened it in preparation for this mission. As Haihane bounced on her toes, I mentally ran through as many of my less-than-stellar practice sessions as I could.

"No throwing knives this time?" I said.

Haihane's hands opened. Her blades spread like flower petals.

"Nope. _Mano-a-mano_. Plus whatever magic you think you can pull off before I gut you."

I forced an almost-believable grin onto my face, and muttered an Aria. My muscles hardened slightly with the reinforcement.

"Marvelous," I said.


	24. Chapter 23

Haihane rushed at me, claws out. Her approach did not make my job easier. She zigzagged from wall to wall like a jumping spider.

Not a problem, though.

I'd practiced a wind Aria perhaps a hundred times as I'd approached MBI. I could recite it in my sleep.

_Enjoy, Sekirei…_

I chanted it.

What should have been a gale-force hurricane fizzled into a light breeze. Of course. The steel walls. I didn't have enough air to-

CLANG!

I barely dodged Haihane's claws. And then she was on me, swiping left and right while I scrambled backward. Even on reinforced legs, I couldn't backpedal quickly enough. She slashed my chest. My coat parted. And already, I felt blood pumping into the fabric.

Curses.

With Haihane's bladed fingertips snipping near my face, I seized upon the first fragment of poetry that came to mind. And thus was born what might have been my stupidest Aria.

_The eensy-weensy spi-i-i-i-ider came up the water-spout..._

I will state for the record that at least I didn't accompany my "Aria" with hand gestures. But it worked. Somehow.

The puff of steam in Haihane's eyes blinded her just long enough. I leaped away. By the time she'd reset herself, I'd prepared something rather more substantial.

_Below the thunders of the upper deep_

_Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea_

_His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep_

_The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee_

Streamers of water coiled around me. I'd devised the spell after watching Tsukiumi's performance. While I couldn't strengthen the streamers with my customary wind spells, they were still a not-inconsiderable piece of craftsmanship. And in that confined space, they were also far more dangerous.

I grinned.

_"Scalp!"_

When I was a boy, I enjoyed making the garden hose go berserk on our lawn maintenance staff. My water streamers moved a bit like that hose. They flailed without an apparent pattern. Whenever Haihane dodged one, it changed direction. The streamers cut gashes in the wall. Water sliced airholes in three-inch steel. The box echoed with sounds of tearing metal.

Haihane's dodging became more frantic. She began to resemble an intoxicated gibbon on speeded-up film. Duck. Skip. Spin. At one point, she leaned backwards at a near-ninety degree angle while balancing on one foot. Yet for all Haihane's acrobatics, a streamer caught her in the chest. Another opened a long cut on her leg. She hissed in pain. (On the bright side, her bandages finally had work to do.)

Alas, my prana reserves weren't infinite.

The streamers drooped. I withdrew my remaining prana as soon as the weapons became useless. The remnants splashed on the ground.

"Well," I said. "That evened things a bit, didn't it?"

"Yup," Haihane said. "'Evened'. Past tense."

I fired a bullet of water. Low-cost. Simple. Haihane tilted her head, and it flew past her. So I tried another forty.

_Plink plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink__ plink_ -  


Haihane bobbed, weaved, and hopped her way toward me. And despite my best efforts, I couldn't seem to get a bead on her. Perhaps because my aim was atrocious.

I've never had any pretensions to being a marksman. Nevertheless, I am forced to concede that it can _occasionally _prove a useful skill. That I don't have.

Haihane snorted. In a contemptuous gesture after my own heart, she flicked away my last bullet with her fore-claw. It made a _ting!_ when it struck the metal. Yet I noticed a slight limp when Haihane advanced.

Her limbs, as the old cliche goes, seemed to be everywhere at once. I was certain she was concealing a few spares somewhere. I tried to avoid them as best I could. More often than not, I couldn't. I healed myself when they struck.

My prana was running low. For all that Haihane lacked finesse, she compensated with a combination of speed and nigh-simian agility. Until that moment, I had no idea that someone could spin so much without getting dizzy. It was like fighting a bladed tornado.

Haihane jumped into the air. Her foot connected with my ribs. I heard a crack. The kick propelled me into a wall, and my head collided with several inches of steel. The sharp, lancing pain in my skull complemented the feeling that Haihane had turned my chest into an accordion.

My vision blurred. My ears were ringing. When I finally stood up again, I nearly toppled forward. More prana flowed into a healing spell.

I chanted another Aria.

Mist billowed around me, covering my retreat. Haihane's claws struck the wall. I heard the screech of metal on metal as the blades punched through.

I rattled through yet _another_ Aria at auctioneer-speed while Haihane yanked her claws out of the wall.

_If you can imagine any one obtaining this power of becoming invisible_

_and never doing any wrong or touching what was another's_

_he would be thought by the lookers-on to be the most wretched idiot_

_although they would praise him to one another's faces_

_and keep up appearances with one another from a fear that they too might suffer injustice_

My right shoulder disappeared. Invisibility crawled up my arm, and finally engulfed my knife as well.

It was a complicated, fragile spell. One that I could ill afford, given my limited prana supply. And it would still flicker if my mind wandered.

If I was going to indulge in a knife fight with Haihane, though, I wanted every advantage I could get. I'd heard somewhere that some knife fighters obscured their movements with cloaks, like matadors. It had occurred to me that making my arm invisible would do almost the same thing...

"Hey," Haihane said. "Cool stuff."

"I aim to please."

"I can still basically figure out where your arm is from the rest of your body, though."

...Or not.

A wise Sekirei once told me that the blows you don't see coming hurt the most.

I felt a jolt on my chin, and my vision went white for a second. My jaw wouldn't move. I ran my tongue through my mouth. My teeth didn't align anymore.

The pain was excruciating.

It must be conceded that I am not a particularly brave person. Even after multiple cycles of near-death and healing, I couldn't suppress the thrill of panic that comes when one discovers a disfiguring injury. Cowardly, perhaps, but there it is.

I spent more prana as I crawled away. My jaw popped back into place. I screamed as the nerves reknit. Another pop. My teeth clattered together. Healed.

Not much left now.

Haihane was breathing heavily. I was _gasping_. The floor had become slippery with water, ice, and blood. And so, I suppose, had the walls. Haihane seemed none too keen on swinging from them anymore. And her limp was obvious.

I forced myself to my feet, and tried to speak between breaths. My results were mixed.

"Haih-Ha-whatsyourname..." I said, "...step...aside...n'gimme..._urgh!_"

My stomach heaved. Haihane twitched, but didn't move quickly enough to follow up. She swayed a bit with the arrested motion.

I steadied myself.

"...B'subasa," I finished.

Haihane smiled. I noticed a few broken teeth.

"Nah," she said.

I stopped my healing spells and focused on reinforcement. Even my knife received some prana.

Now...how had Benitsubasa done it? Knife in dominant hand. Right. Grip it in a vee, like a handshake, with the handle diagonal against the palm. Feet shoulder width apart. Weight on front foot. Free hand ready to trap the opponent's arms...No, that wouldn't work. Not against Haihane's claws. Close to the body, then-

That was as far as I got. Haihane moved.

She slashed diagonally across my throat. I snapped backward. The blades sliced parallel lines down my collarbone.

Haihane followed up immediately. A second cut to my stomach nearly disemboweled me. Even as I staggered away, she lunged with all her weight, closing her left-hand claws into a single blade. Like a bird's beak.

I sidestepped. Her forward momentum nearly bowled me over. But she'd overcommitted

My empty hand shot out. I grabbed her wrist. Haihane's fingers closed around my forearm immediately, shredding muscles, veins, and tendons. I clenched my jaw and drew my knife lengthwise down her biceps. It cut cleanly. Her blood spilled onto my hand. It may have been the first occasion I'd felt an opponent's blood on my skin. It was warm and sticky, and made me hesitate for a moment.

Too long.

Haihane growled with what could have been anger or pain. Or both. When I tried to continue my slash downward, she jumped back. My attempted jab at her armpit hit only air.

Exploit the advantage, then.

I lunged for Haihane's injured side.

Her sliced arm, however, was not as useless as I'd believed. She swung it at mine. They collided. I felt a jolt when bone struck bone. Even with reinforcement, Sekirei physiology is a great deal hardier than its human counterpart.

My attack glanced away. Haihane dug her claws into my shoulder.

"AAAhh!"

I tried to pull away, but the claws held me in place. In a moment, I realized why: Haihane was steadying herself on me. Using my body as a pivot point, she swung around and kicked my leg as if she was swinging a baseball bat. I heard a snap.

Haihane kicked me in the chest. I went flying before rolling into a heap against the wall.

And so, there I was.

I'd pushed too hard. Over-reinforced. Burned through all but the tiniest crumbs of my prana. My circuits stung. Imagine the pins and needles you experience when your foot falls asleep, and then intensify the discomfort into extreme pain.

As for the rest of it, the cracked ribs hadn't healed properly. They ached whenever I breathed. My gasps had become correspondingly shallow. A crushing sensation made me feel a sliver of sympathy for _peine forte et dure_ victims.

I raised my head and looked down at my body. Right leg mangled. Badly. Fortunately, my healing and reinforcement spells hadn't worn off yet. Pain would arrive presently. In the meantime, blood burbled merrily down my arm and shoulder, keeping time with my heartbeat.

I tried to get up. _Everything_ hurt. I lay back with a whimper.

I'm not proud of the (incredibly painful) sobs that wracked my body, but I mention them for the sake of accuracy. None of my wounds were quite fatal. Not yet. But Haihane would remedy that.

Unfortunately, I didn't possess the emotional numbness I'd experienced after Benitsubasa's death, nor the mindless, semi-conscious pain I'd felt against Yomi. I didn't even have the satisfaction of knowing that _someone_ I cared about would survive this.

Just a killing machine walking toward me in a steel box, and absolutely nothing I could do about it. And if by some miracle Haihane didn't kill me, Karasuba would. I couldn't _stand_, let alone salvage the Jinki to dispatch the Black Sekirei. The Magus Killer was probably already dead. Or would be soon.

I would like to tell you that my final thoughts were about something uplifting and original. If this was one of Ilya's novels, I would go on lyrically for pages about all the musical sonatas I'd never write, or record my musings about the ethical implications of the Root, or some such nonsense.

I'm afraid that I must disappoint you once again.

I wanted to read stories with my mother, like I'd done when I was five. I wanted to be back with Father in his lab. Home. Well, one of my homes, anyway. America. England. Anywhere but this dirty little hallway, in this dirty little country where I was going to die.

Haihane limped toward me. She stumbled. Shook her head. Kept going.

It wasn't _fair_. It wasn't. Benitsubasa was gone. My father was probably dead. My mother would be widowed, without an heir to carry on. The Archibald line? _Finished_. And I didn't want to die, oh _please_ don't let me-

_To be a magus is to walk with death._

Slow down.

_To be a magus is to walk with death._

Dignitas.

_To be a magus is to walk with death._

Virtus.

_To be-_

"Good fight," Haihane said. "Y'know, it's _almost _enough to forgive you for this mess in the first place. Thanks. Seriously. I needed this."

"I don't suppose you'd-"

"Nah, I'm still gonna kill you."

"Just checking."

A painful tremor in my voice ruined the bravado. Not that it would matter soon.

Haihane wiped the blood and sweat from her eyes. Her absence of tears was the only gap in a potential trifecta. Blades clipped together like shears. The effect was somewhat spoiled when she swayed to the right. Haihane blinked.

Oh, yes. That's right. Not that it mattered in the long run, but…

"And you _almost _had me there for a second," Haihane said.

"Consider me consoled," I said.

"Well, not really. I guess you never _had_ me. But it was still kinda cool to see how you looked _so freaking happy_ when you opened up my arm. Seriously. You were grinning like a chipmunk in an electrical socket."

I smiled. Ironically, it was probably the only muscle movement that I could still manage.

"That's because I poisoned the blade," I said.

"Wha-huh?"

Another stumble.

Haihane shut her eyes hard and opened them again, as if trying to wash out a speck of dirt.

I'd salvaged one vial of poison from my lab. One. In the wake of Mutsu's death, I'd realized that alchemy was one of my few advantages in an otherwise unfair game. That little glass container had been worth it.

"Hey now," Haihane said, "that's not very sportsmanl-_blurgh! Urk!_"

Haihane's claws clutched at her throat. A dry heave nearly drove them through the skin.

Forty-five seconds since her first dizzy spell. Or fifty. My timekeeping suffers a bit when embroiled in death matches. First cough at forty? Most likely. Blood already in the mucus. Victim convulsing at fifty...

"_Sit tibi terra levitas_, Sekirei," I said. "Although technically, I suppose you should have won."

Haihane gave a wet gulp. She dropped to the ground in a fit of tremors. A claw slipped off her right arm with a sucking sound, as her hands had already begun to liquefy.

I lacked the stomach to watch the rest.

Breathe.

And again...

And again...

_Kochou_, I thought.

_What?_

_Show me Kiritsugu and Karasuba._

_Um...are you sure you want to see-_

_Now, Kochou._

I closed my eyes. Visions passed into my mind from Kochou's surveillance camera link.

* * *

_Almost immediately, I wished I hadn't asked._

_Kiritsugu was panting. He was bloody. His time distortion flickered in and out, blurring him one moment and seeming to freeze him the next as he returned to normal speed. I suppose the Magus Killer had made a virtue of necessity, though: the jagged rhythm must have presented Karasuba with a difficult target. _

_"Funny..." he said._

_Karasuba advanced on him. Her sword trailed along the ground. _

_Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhingggggggg..._

_"Mmmh?" she said._

_"I dealt with something like a Sekirei once," he said. "Back in Fuyuki. A Servant, we called him. He had a weapon that could destroy worlds. Among other things."_

_Karasuba tsk'd. She waggled a finger._

_"Ahhh, now I know you're lying, Magus Killer. And on death's door, too. For shame."_

_Kiritsugu returned Karasuba's smile._

_"And he had the same weakness, too," he said._

_"Oh? And what was that?"_

_"A human Master."_

_For just a moment, the implication didn't seem to register with Karasuba. When it did, her eyes widened until I couldn't even see the omnipresent bags under them._

_"You remember Meriwether's Sekirei familiar, don't you?" Kiritsugu said. "Computer hacker? Walking around in an invisibility field? Knew the MBI building like the back of her hand, too...including all the rooms where you could hide your Ashikabi during an atta-"_

_Karasuba looked back. Her hand dropped to her radio link with Akitsu. It was barely a second's distraction. But in that moment of hesitation, I realized that she'd never be the assassin that the Magus Killer was. Not with all the prana rituals in the world._

_"**Triple Accel**_**_._**_"_

_Kiritsugu's body didn't look like it had moved. 'Teleported' would be more apt. His Thompson Contender barked._

_An Origin bullet hit the Black Sekirei dead center. _

_You might describe Kiritsugu's "Origin" - the essence, if you will, of his thaumaturgical being - as "severing and binding". A scalpel cuts. Kiritsugu's Origin was rather more subtle. The magecraft in his bullets cut, yes, but it also reknit. Note, however, that it did not reconstruct. Like a rope that had been severed and then retied, the target would never be the same again. Kiritsugu's bullets warped magic circuits beyond recognition or recovery. _

_And Karasuba had filled her circuits to their bursting point. _

_As the bullet struck, I heard a sizzling sound. _

_And then, an explosion._

_Tendrils of energy shot through the Black Sekirei as though she was a living Tesla coil. Dark lightning fired in all directions. Tentacles of shadow dug into the walls, ripping apart stone like the death-throes of some monstrous octopus._

_Karasuba collapsed. Sparks even snapped in the blood she'd leaked on the ground. _

_I do not believe that I shall ever burn her screams from my mind. In part, they were filtered over MBI's sound system. But only in part. Even in a distant hallway, I heard her._

_I suppose that if I was forced to pick someone capable of suffering in silent dignity (insofar as that statement is not an oxymoron), Karasuba would hover near the top of my list. For all her sadism, sociopathy, and questionable sexual tastes, there was something grimly Spartan about the Black Sekirei. She loved battle, and like many of her kind, she had also accepted the pain that accompanied it. _

_But she had never faced an Origin bullet._

_Smoke was rising from her body. I couldn't smell the charred flesh, but I could imagine the stench. And then, Karasuba did something that none of Kiritsugu's previous victims had done._

_She stood up. With what must have been pure willpower, the Black Sekirei propelled that shattered body into a standing position. Her sword hung from one hand, trailing along the ground. She even managed to take a step toward Kiritsugu._

_...Before toppling in a heap. Her sword clattered. Kiritsugu kicked it away._

_Neither spoke for a while. Karasuba was too busy exhibiting signs of severe bodily trauma. Kiritsugu was searching his coat for something. At last, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His muscles seemed to loosen._

_"Actually..." he said._

_She gagged. Kiritsugu poked around his trenchcoat for a lighter. Found one._

_"...I was bluffing," he said._

_Karasuba didn't say anything for a few moments. And then, she gave a wet gurgle that I assumed was a chuckle. She retched up quite a bit of blood in the process. Kiritsugu watched in silence, neither offering help nor inflicting further damage. _

_He fumbled with the cigarette pack. It was empty._

_Karasuba's voice came out in a rasp._

_"How...was I...Magus Killer?"_

_He shrugged. _

_"Better than most," he said._

_"Than that Master...you mentioned...with the...Servant?"_

_"No."_

* * *

I let the vision dim.

Everything slowed.

So very, very quiet all of the sudden. My head seemed to be floating as I _ssssssssank_ into the floor. And somehow, I smiled.

_Kochou_, I thought.

_Yeah? _she thought. _Your prana flow's not looking too hot right now. What's wrong?_

_Oh, this and that. Bleeding to death, mostly_. _I have a job for you._

_...Um, okay..._

_Come to MBI Tower, _I thought. _When you get here, "hack" whatever is necessary to get these walls raised. Take Benitsubasa's body. I'll supply you with prana for as long as I can. My own body can run on the leftovers. _

_Isn't that a little...I dunno, unhealthy for you? _

_Yes. Very._

_Okay, just checking_, Kochou thought. _Uh...I guess that's - Wait, what if I see your dad or Kiritsugu?_

_Kiritsugu will let you pass. My father's probably dead_, I thought.

_But what if he's-_

_If you see my father, run. _

When I was a boy, my maternal grandfather seemed to delight in irritating the Archibald side of my family. Three-fourths Ulster English (and absentee landlords, at that) though my grandfather had been, he had graced my mother with her abomination-of-a-name out of some misplaced sense of Hibernophilia.

Fortunately, it hadn't gone much further than that. The Archibald branch of my family - old English stock, thank you very much, with some Boston Brahmin and Knickerbocker - had smiled and tolerated it. Barely.

(In the spirit of full disclosure, I feel compelled to add that the Archibalds also have a small-but-significant dash of _Converso_ blood. Like most sane victims of religious persecution, our forebears had fled Spain before the Inquisition got them. I suppose we're proud of them, in our own quiet way. Not that we can speak of the matter at Clock Tower social functions...for obvious reasons.)

In any event, whenever my grandfather had imbibed a bit too much _uisce beatha _for his own good, he was given to singing Irish songs. In a brogue, no less. A brogue that he had not displayed at any other time, and certainly hadn't grown up with.

I bring up my grandfather only because, to this day, I swear that I could hear the old fellow's voice in my head while I was shutting my body down. And he'd been dead for almost a decade.

_The minstrel boy to the war is gone_

_In the ranks of death ye will find him_

_His father's sword he hath girded on_

_And his wild harp slung behind him..._

And everything went black.


	25. Chapter 24

**A/N: **This is definitely NOT the last chapter, though we're closing in on the end.

* * *

Much to my surprise, I woke up in the same luxury hotel I'd left the previous day. Or days? The timeline was still a bit foggy, though my still-empty circuits argued for something rather less than a week.

My arms were bare. They were also nearly blackened with ink. Someone had scrawled rune after rune on them, layered and interlinked like the more decorative varieties of Arabic script. Amulets dangled over my head, suspended from a jade wheel. The result resembled a child's mobile.

I blinked. Blurriness retreated.

The H-1 clock still gyrated this way and that, a collection of brass, springs, and bulbs floating on air. A piece of parchment hung nearby. It depicted one of the later, elaborated models of Ptolemy's solar system, complete with epicycles drawn in nearly endless repetitions. Rings within rings within rings.

I tried to stand. My left leg stiffened. I noticed for the first time that a dull ache had replaced every other sensation there. It was like numbness, but slightly unpleasant. I suppose it had come from some combination of my own improper healing, over-reinforcement, and injury.

I never lost it, by the way. I still suffer from a slight-but-perceptible limp. Though it does give me the excuse to carry a cane, so I suppose that particular glass is half-full.

I tensed each muscle in turn. The procedure revealed a few more spots of numbness.

I smelled cigarette smoke, and turned. Kiritsugu lounged on the couch. A saline drip was attached to his arm. He exhaled, and the obligatory wisps of smoke left his nostrils.

"About time," he said.

"Did you...wake me?"

"Yes. And you'd better shake the sleep off quickly."

I rubbed my eyelids. Quite a bit of crust had accumulated.

"I saw your triple accel," I said. "And the Origin bullet. Through Kochou."

Kiritsugu shook his head. I thought I saw the ghost of a smile. Looking back on it now, though, it was probably nothing.

"Mmh. That probably would've killed me twenty-five years ago. As it is, my body's pretty shot. Prana's exhausted, too."

"Then how-"

Kiritsugu withdrew the cigarette from his mouth. Another cloud billowed in the air, and then dissipated. He no longer smiled. Just watched the trail of smoke, rising upward.

"You have something more important to worry about," he said.

"Eh?"

"Your father's about to vivisect your Sekirei."

"_WHAT?_"

I have occasionally suspected that somewhere deep in the fabric of reality, a design flaw has ordained that I'm not allowed to receive unalloyed good news. My father was alive. Benitsubasa was about to get cut apart.

Kiritsugu was still talking.

"I've always thought that you were a little different from the rest of your family," he said. "Ilya certainly wouldn't have been allowed to associate with you otherwise..."

He flicked ash onto the carpet. Those dead-looking eyes fixed on mine.

"...I don't like to be proved wrong," he said. "So. Your move."

"_Where is_ she?" I shouted.

He nodded.

"Good," he said. "As I expected, then. Five doors down. Room's soundproofed, so-"

I didn't hear the rest. I was already hobbling as best I could toward it. Even though the healing magecraft must have been working during the previous day(s?), I could still feel the sting of wounds reopening.

* * *

Only when I opened the door did it occur to me that Kiritsugu had said 'vivisected'.

Not 'dissected'. She'd been revived, somehow.

I broke in on a very unpleasant scene.

If this had been one of those 1930s serials I'd watched with Ilya as a boy (before my parents caught wind of it), I would have arrived _just _in time. Doubtless I would have been one of those muscle-bound, lantern-jawed "heroes" who seemed to delight in frustrating the schemes of overzealous - but essentially well-meaning - scientists. I would have whisked Benitsubasa off the operating table, and that would have been that.

Instead, I froze.

Contrary to the above-noted portrayals, seeing damsels-in-distress on operating tables is neither alluring nor easily forgotten. Especially when the 'damsel' is (1) someone you care deeply about; (2) terrified out of her wits; and (3) already writhing in agony from several incisions.

I use the term 'damsel' in the loosest possible sense, by the way. Benitsubasa had defended me more times than I cared to count, and could have torn most Enforcers in half. She was more of a knight than I was, at any rate. Which made the situation all the more sickening.

My father looked up.

He wore a white apron over his robe, and held a knife between fingers wrapped in latex gloves. The knife was a black, jagged-looking thing made of obsidian. Even from a distance, I could feel something unwholesome about the prana. Whenever it touched Benitsubasa's skin, struggling ceased. The muscles lost all their tension.

The knife returned to its steel tray. Copper bands inscribed with symbols held Benitsubasa down. Ordinarily, she could have snapped the metal in an instant. But those symbols had restrained more dangerous creatures than Sekirei. I'd watched a few of the vivisections myself.

"Ah...Meriwether," my father said. "So the murderer-for-hire woke you after all? Good. I could use an aide."

Benitsubasa was staring at me. Eyes wide. She was almost hyperventilating through her gag. And I found myself staring back. Had I been a bit less preoccupied, I would have noticed that my knuckles had whitened. My fists were shaking along with the rest of my body.

Blood. Her left arm was _open_. Muscles moving - I could see them moving. Oh please, just make it-

_"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" _I shrieked.

My father frowned. The room (literally) grew a few degrees colder.

"Do not take that tone with _me_," he said. "I will only excuse it once because of your recent ordeal."

"But Father, you can't—"

"You hardly expected me to examine this creature's internal structure while she was still 'terminated', did you? It was a simple matter. These 'Jinki' were well built. That, I grant them. And with my expertise in Evocation..."

His voice droned on. And I am ashamed to say that I just kept gaping. Rooted there. The scene was unreal, somehow. A routine situation turned into a nightmare - like seeing some ghoul looking back at you one morning when you step in front of the mirror. My stomach churned.

"...Surely you've noticed the _Volumen Hydragyrum's_ absence, at least?" my father said. "Remarkable creatures, these Sekirei. Would you believe that the ice Sekirei actually forced me to destroy my own Mystic Code?"

He pointed at two operating tables on the room's far side, both similar to the one that held Benitsubasa. The first contained Karasuba - or at least what remained of her. I won't describe the body in any detail, except to remark that she'd probably been alive through most of it. I couldn't bring myself to feel much sympathy.

The other held Akitsu. As yet, only the Crest on her forehead was missing.

My father smiled and shook his head. His voice had become a bit more animated, as it was wont to do when discussing some new discovery or other. Which was, to my knowledge, the _only_ time that it ever became animated. His knife waved airily as it emphasized his points

"...I thought I _had_ the creature when the _Hydragyrum_ got close to her. I'd even prepared a Melville quotation. Hem! All _too _apt, as it turned out."

Benitsubasa. Suffering. Do something. Say something...

"...The ice Sekirei _froze _it. The same Mystic Code, mark you, that took me years to create. Naturally, I flooded the _Volumen Hydragyrum _with enough prana to blow them both to gobbets. Which, fortunately, she had not anticipated. Except that the creature was _still_ in one piece at the end of it. Indeed, she only suffered damage to that 'Crest' of hers..."

_Kochou_, I thought. _What happened!_

My familiar transmitted a mental shrug.

_Your father got there first. Sorry._

_You're safe?_ I thought.

_Hey, that's uncharacteristically nice of you_, she thought. _I appreciate the concern, but-_

_Shut up and answer._

_Wow. Misread that one. And to answer your question, I'm far away from your little clusterf-_

_Good_, I thought. _Get internet access. Now._

"And that so-called 'Black Sekirei'..." my father continued. "Fascinating. For all that Emiya _assured _me of his supposed 'improvements' since the War, that Japanese thug burned through four of my artifacts to keep up with her. Four. Powerful ones, too..."

"Father?"

He stopped. His left hand drummed on the wood. Benitsubasa's rapid breathing was the only other sound until my father snapped his fingers. The gag choked the sound off.

"Meriwether, if this is more insubordination..."

My heart _might_ have been pounding harder against Haihane. Barely.

"I...I just want to...er, suggest that perhaps our interests would be better served by keeping her- um, the Sekirei - alive. I believe we can learn a great deal about prana rituals if we just -"

The knife clattered against the tray. My father picked up another tool with a wide, pincer-like set of jaws. Barbs protruded seemingly at random. I assumed that it had a purpose beyond the simple infliction of pain. I still prefer to believe that this was the case.

"Nonsense."

"I...Father, I'll promise a publishable paper for the Clock Tower's next conference! Groundbreaking work. I know I'm not permitted to reveal the existence of Sekirei, but - but even so, I think I could -"

He sighed.

"Normally, I would indulge you. And far be it from me to impede your sudden - albeit dubiously motivated - interest in academic pursuits. Unfortunately, my less-than-satisfactory son and heir, I feel that I must administer an _object lesson_."

"W-what?"

My father pulled something from his pocket. It was small and gray, and had a hole in the middle. A self-bored stone. He held it above Benitsubasa's head.

At first, I couldn't see anything through it. And then, something shimmered. Incorporeal. It looked like thread wrought from some reddish metal, and it was almost infinitesimally thin. Yet it was there. It pointed in my direction. My father traced it long enough to show that lead to me.

"You know that it's reciprocal, don't you?" he said.

"What?"

"The Sekirei bond," he said. "I suspected from the moment you had the absolute _gall_ to talk back to me. This little succubus has been meddling with your mind. Oh, they're only nudges, to be sure. And I doubt that she's conscious of it. I would have killed her outright otherwise."

A cold, electric sensation gripped my stomach. So my own sentiments were - no, but even so, I didn't. Augh. So what would I have felt if -? No. It wasn't the time or - she was _hurting_, and -

"Certainly not on the scale that Sekirei bond affects _her_," he continued. "No, I'm afraid you've brought most of this on yourself. Even so..."

His fingers tightened around the handle of the evil-looking, barbed _thing_.

"...no one meddles with my son."

I took a deep breath.

"Actually, Father, her unconscious 'meddling' seems fair enough, since she-"

"_What?_"

Benitsubasa winced and inhaled sharply when the instrument hovered near her eye. The straps bit into her legs. Bruises appeared - almost impossible on a Sekirei under normal circumstances, but there they were.

My father drove one of the barbs into table's wooden borders with a _thunk_. Right next to Benitsubasa's head. A convenient place to put it, I suppose. The wood would grow back, and the hooks and jaws wouldn't dull.

Odd how an image can change so much, and still retain the same significance. My father's green eyes were no longer framed in blood from Akitsu's ice daggers when they met mine. Yet they remained part of a scene where someone I loved was about to die...

...And I'd just admitted it to myself, hadn't I?

My father cleared his throat.

"We shall only speak of this once, so pay attention," he said. "When I faced that ice Sekirei, do you know what crossed my mind? The Crest, do you imagine? No. That I would not live to see my son become the great magus that I _know_ - mark that, Meriwether - he will become. All his lazy efforts to the contrary notwithstanding."

"Father, I hardly see how Benitsubasa would impede me from-"

"You _will_ marry someday," he said. "And while I cannot promise that your mother and I will select the perfect wife for you, I believe that you will find married life to your liking. Even your Mother and I..."

He coughed, and waved his hand in a lazy sort of half-circle.

"...Well, we've had our moments. And I will not allow some alien mistress to ruin that for you. You'll grieve a bit, yes. But once her death cuts the connection between your souls..._finis_. You'll be well on your way to accepting the situation after you watch the dissection -"

While it was hardly a tragedy, I've always considered it a great misfortune that I only heard all of this in the moments before I used it against him. (The pleasanter parts, I mean. Not his desire to dissect her.) Note that I say 'misfortune', though. Not 'regret'. I would have done it again, and felt just as horrible afterwards.

"I'll go to the Clock Tower, Father."

He _hmph'd_.

"Don't be childish. You couldn't do such a thing without endangering yourself."

"That's the point," I said.

"Pardon?"

"I'll promise to keep our family out of it," I said. "I'll tell Lady Barthomeloi that I acted on my own. Which is true. You and Mother can even have produce another heir, if you like. But I won't consent to this. I'm sorry, Lord El-Melloi. "

My father's eyes widened. Benitsubasa shook her head. Against the restraints' resistance, it almost looked like a spasm. Looking back on it now, it occurs to me how very strange it was that under those circumstances, my father and Benitsubasa had found grounds for agreement.

His voice lowered.

"Not if I keep you under house arrest," he said. "If anything, this..._insanity_ only confirms my suspicion that the malady needs to be excised before-"

"Kochou can send the necessary information through electronic mail," I said. "Instantly. She could release enough to the Enforcers to hang me a few times over. Not that it would matter, since as soon as the Clock Tower receives it, Miya's _geis_ contract would tear my soul apart. You'd have a front-row seat, as it were."

My father did not answer for what seemed like an eternity. He just _stared _at me. When the silence broke, I expected fury. Lecturing. Ice and razor wind to emphasize prominent points. And I would receive all of that presently. But I did not expect what came first.

"...You would do that to me, Meriwether?" he said.

My father had a remarkable ability to say my name at _just_ the proper pitch to make me feel like a child again. And evoke all the shame that came with it.

I thought I heard something else in his tone, though - something not quite so calculated, or proud.

"I...yes," I said. "With the gravest reservations, but yes."

If weakness it was, the First Lord El-Melloi did not let it persist long. The storm arrived. Threats to disown me were the least of it. I will not elaborate much, since I find it both unnecessary for the narrative and unpleasant (well, sad, I suppose) to recall. The aftershocks persisted beyond our initial confrontation, but the majority of it occurred in the hour that followed.

He conceded the point, in the end. I had his word that he wouldn't kill Benitsubasa. And his word was more binding than any _geis_.

I paid for it. Heavily. I think, looking back on it, that I very nearly destroyed my relationship with my father that day. And perhaps, in a way, I actually did destroy it.

In the months after that conversation, my existence was not enviable. Our "arrangement" did not stop my father from inflicting all manner of unpleasantness on me for my defiance. As was his right. I bore it without complaint.

After all, I'd threatened to kill his only son in front of him.

It was, as I said, a misfortune. From that point until the day of his death, I knew that my father would have laid down his life for me. More than that – I'd seen it. And my father went to his grave knowing that I'd tried at least once to do the same for him. Yet this abstract knowledge remained the greater part of our "interaction" during the last years of his life. And for something so supposedly weighty, it often didn't feel like very much.

But for now, the hour of excoriation passed.

My father left.

* * *

I rubbed my face where one of his water whips had struck me.

Benitsubasa was still shaking on the table. I unhooked everything and draped a towel over her while I looked for the more _conventional_ medical equipment. She didn't speak for a little while. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, breathing in and out.

"I...er...Benitsubasa?"

She turned to me. Her mouth opened, but didn't make a sound. Finally, she nodded.

"Um, let's get you some bandages, shall we?" I said.

Another nod. While I fussed with straps of linen inscribed with Theban script and the SATOR-AREPO square, Benitsubasa still refrained from speaking. Occasionally, a shudder passed through her. Even those died down after a while.

But Sekirei are nothing if not durable. Inhumanly so, like everything else about them.

The salve under the bandages fizzed. Benitsubasa's breath caught. I actually _watched _the spots of blood on the bandages slowly flow back into her veins. Before long, the linen was white again. Rustling sounds underneath the fabric attested to skin folding back into place.

If I'd been in a different mood, I might have speculated about the interaction between healing magecraft and alien physiology.

I grinned like an idiot instead.

"M-meriwether?" she said.

"Hm?"

Benitsubasa's eyes were wet. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me down. Bandages and all. She hugged me tightly, prompting no small amount of alarm when I wondered whether the linen would hold. Fortunately, the incisions didn't reopen.

Her body shook with some combination of sobs, shivers, and perhaps a laugh or two born of relief. The front of my coat became rather moist.

Had I been in Benitsubasa's place, I would have stared into space for _quite_ a bit longer. Even as it was, the recent memory of paternal chastisement (not to mention watching Benitsubasa getting cut apart) had left me nauseous, shaky, and with a throbbing pain in my cheek. I'm afraid that I met Benitsubasa's outpouring of emotion rather numbly.

But then, Benitsubasa had always been more resilient than I was. In many ways.

_"Thank you_," she whispered.

"I - ehm...you're welcome."

We rested there like that for a while, wrapped around each other. I relaxed into the warmth of Benitsubasa's ear against my cheek, and the sound of her breathing, and the way that her exhalations tickled my skin. I couldn't repress a sigh.

I ran my fingers across the back of her neck, where her Crest had once been.

"Well, it appears you're 'free' now," I said. "So to speak."

"Yeah..." she said.

"You knew?"

She nuzzled more deeply into my chest.

"I...I can't feel your presence very much anymore," she said. "Not like before. It's faint. Kinda like I'm empty. It's - I guess humans deal with it all the time, but still..."

"I know it's not a good time, but perhaps you should consider-_urk!_"

Unintentionally, Benitsubasa's hand tightened on my collar.

She released me as soon as she noticed, although her voice took on a slightly higher, faster pitch.

"_Don't_ tell me to get another Ashikabi," she said. "I thought we covered this. Forever and ever, and I _meant _it. Crest or no Crest."

"You're forgetting Miya's _geis_ contract," I said. "That thing's going to hang over my head like the Sword of Damocles for the rest of my (probably short) life. We can't cover it up forever."

Benitsubasa's reply was so _very_ _like _a Sekirei. From a human, it would have sounded absurd.

"Another minute would be worth it," she said.

"...You're serious."

"Yes."

"Your absent Crest notwithstanding."

"_I_ love you, idiot. My body was just a little ahead of the curve."

"I'm...glad, actually," I said.

Benitsubasa blinked.

And then, she kissed me. It resembled the kiss she'd given me before Miya terminated her. No tongue. No exchange of saliva. Just soft, warm lips against mine.

But her Crest was gone. There was no flare of light.

Wings didn't erupt from her back. Only the faintest trickle of prana passed from my body to hers. It was pleasant.

I kissed back.


	26. NONCANON Omake 2

**NONCANON Omake #2: What if Meriwether had winged Matsu instead?**

* * *

"Ohhhhh Me-e-e-e-e-e-ri - tan..."

I stilled my breathing, hoping that her assortment of bugs and surveillance cameras hadn't already found me. Where _was_ it? My hands fumbled through highlighters, pencils, notepads, and a pair of tweezers. Every so often, they bumped one of the sides of the drawer _far_ too loudly for comfort. I could already imagine Matsu's hands moving in their disturbing fondling-twitches.

Finally, I felt something. It was phone-sized and plastic. I pulled it out - and suppressed a scream of despair.

It was one of those computer phones.

"Me-e-e-e-ri-tan? I _know_ you're here somewhere...Ooh! Is this hide and seek? Matsu has a _great_ idea for what to do when she catches you! Heh heh heh hrnk hrnk..."

It is said that in moments of extreme peril, ordinary humans can perform extraordinary feats. One man survived a fall from a plane without a parachute. Mothers have been known to lift cars off their children. In a frenzied orgy of screen-tapping and button-pressing, I somehow got the phone to dial the right number.

A pink-haired female appeared on the screen. Beni-something or other. I'd met her only once. She'd been dispatched as a representative of the "Disciplinary Squad" to remind me that Matsu was still technically _persona non grata_ at MBI.

Beni-whatsit was also, to my knowledge, the only sane member of her species. We'd gotten along reasonably well over tea, especially when one considers that she'd just informed me that I was harboring a fugitive. I hadn't even protested (much) at her endless monologue about her efforts to win her "Ashikabi" over to women. I got the distinct impression that good listeners were few and far between at MBI.

"H-hey," she said. "Meriwether El-Melon, right?"

"...Close enough," I said. "Look, I don't have long, but I need to ask you-"

I bit my tongue the moment I heard the sound of Matsu's rubber catsuit squeaking by. The sound faded down the hallway. I allowed myself to exhale.

"Something wrong, Meriwether? What's this call about, anyway?"

"Er...I'm planning to leave Shin Tokyo," I said.

Her eyes narrowed.

"That's against the rules," she said.

"Um, yes! I know. And I'm...ah, an irrepressible rulebreaker! Yes. Ha! I spit on your rules!"

The creature raised an eyebrow. I debated for a moment whether _actually_ spitting would simultaneously emphasize both my resolve and my depraved disregard for authority, but ultimately concluded that it would be rather disgusting.

She sighed.

"Okay, look," she said. "You seemed like a nice guy over lunch (aside from the weird rant about Baroque furniture), so I'll cut you a break here. If you give up your escape plan, I'll forget _all _about this conversation. 'Kay?"

"Right," I said. "Because if I escaped, you'd have to terminate my Sekirei."

"...Uh, yeah..."

"Capital! Er, terrible. Look, Beni- I'm sorry, but how did you pronounce your name again?"

Her frown deepened.

"Benitsubasa," she said.

"Yes. That. Now see here, Benitsubasa: I'm going to begin my escape attempt -" I checked my watch "-in about an hour or so. I'll be leaving from the same address you visited last week. You know it, I trust?"

"Hey, is this some kind of joke?"

I heard a whip crack in Matsu's room, followed by further giggling. And perhaps the _fwooshing_ sound of a whipped cream can.

"No!" I said. "No joke! And make it half an hour. Do you need my address again, or can you find it witho-"

The Sekirei rotated in her leather chair until she faced away from the screen. Her gloved fists clenched.

"HAIHANE! You forced another Ashikabi to prank-call me, didn't you?"

"No, wait!" I said. "You don't understand! MBI needs to take its Sekirei back and replace her with something more suitable! She dresses in lingerie around the house. _All. The. Time_. Lingerie, I might add, that doesn't cover anything! She tries to break in when I'm bathing. For the love of...she believes people speak to her through her computer!"

"...I'm hanging up now," Benitsubasa said.

"AAAAAUUUGGH!"

The phone's bell tone cheerfully informed me that my last lifeline had vanished.

And then, I heard something far more unnerving: the sound of rubber squeaking against rubber as Matsu slowly...approached...the...door...

* * *

_To His Son Meriwether, Residing In Fuyuki, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, Sends Greetings With Paternal Zeal:_

_I am not sure what to make of your recent call. Indeed, if I was not certain that my son was far too mature for such a thing, I would have concluded that your incoherent screaming on our new "answering machine" was a joke of some sort. If so, it was in poor taste._

_See that it does not happen again._

_- Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society_


	27. DEFINITELY Noncanon Omake 3

**DEFINITELY Noncanon Omake #3: The Hill of Ethnographic Fieldnotes**

* * *

It was Zelretch who had first exploited the potential of parallel worlds. His "kaleidoscope" had allowed him to surf from one reality to the next. Indeed, so potent was his ability to draw energy from his so-called "multiverse" that the monopoly had rendered him almost untouchable.

But in the months that had followed the MBI fiasco, my father had discovered how to break that monopoly.

At first glance, the Servant-summoning ritual had seemed like nothing more than a curiosity when shorn of its connection to Heaven's Feel. Without an enormous prana supply, a magus could never support the Heroic Spirits that the ritual produced. And without a Heroic Spirit, what was the point? Or so the "experts" had said.

My father, however, had not been idle during his years at the helm of Euryphis. He'd already manipulated the Fourth Heaven's Feel ritual. Back then, his tampering had permitted him to delegate prana-supply duties to my mother while he'd retained his Command Seals to control the Servant.

Now, though, he'd set his sights on a more profitable game: interdimensional tunneling.

Chimes from a dozen bronze clocks rang with one voice in his workshop. Symbols glowed crimson on the floor. Their light reflected from the new _Volumen Hydragyrum's_ surface like neon signs on water. Thick, oozing water. I took a deep breath. Benitsubasa held my hand.

The cellar's mildew and moisture filled my nostrils. The floor shook. Old bottles clinked. Some were filled with wine, others with less wholesome liquids. At the far end of the room, lodestones on golden chains spun across a bowl of water like whirligig beetles.

My father's expression seemed stonier than usual. He ran his hand through his hair.

"You're prepared, I trust?" he said.

I nodded.

"At your leisure, Sir."

The ritual, you see, required at least _two_ people: a dispatcher, and one or more messengers. I lacked the talent for the former role. Nor did we trust anyone outside the family with so momentous a project.

Consequently, my father had loaded me down with every piece of thaumaturgical weaponry in the El-Melloi armory. I'd brought a few of my own, as well. The recently-crafted mercury cane/sword/rope that had coiled around my arm like a snake was foremost among them. I could feel my joints creak under the weight.

(Benitsubasa had volunteered as well, but I didn't count her as a weapon. Her impressive body count notwithstanding.)

My father glared at her.

"Sekirei," he said.

"Yes?"

"If you let my son die, I'll make you suffer beyond anything you can imagine."

Benitsubasa met my father's eyes. She clasped her hand in mine as she did so. It was a subtle sort of gesture, perhaps, but possessive all the same.

"If that happens, I can't imagine how _anything _you'd do could make me feel worse."

I expected an acid retort. To my surprise, though, my father simply nodded.

"Good," he said.

Prana coursed through the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ until it glowed green. The final words of my father's Aria boomed throughout the cellar.

The scene rippled. Blurred. Everything grew darker and foggier, until we stood in a black void. Another voice filled the emptiness.

_My servant who exists somewhere in the universe! _  
_Oh divine, beautiful and powerful familiar spirit! _  
_I wish and assert from the bottom of my heart! _  
_Answer to my guidance!_

Light flashed.

* * *

Clouds and a blue sky appeared above us. Benitsubasa, the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ and I tumbled into a heap of limbs, tentacles, and artifacts-with-uncomfortable-protrusions. I smelled wet grass. A bee buzzed. Sunlight heated my eyelids.

I looked up.

We appeared to have landed in a field. A group of teenagers had gathered around us, all dressed in white shirts (or blouses, as the case may be) and cloaks.

If not for a few details, they would have looked rather like students from my own world. But the devil, as they say, is in the details. While relatively uniform, their clothing bore several marks of customization. Some had _gardes_ as trim. One of the girls wore marten fur. Ruffles were a more popular addition, and were generally made of a light silk. Did they call it _sarcenet _here? No matter.

A few of the shirts had abandoned all pretense of good taste. They revealed their owners' skin through pinks, cuttes, or slashes (as the case may be). Almost all of the teenagers wore cloaks with wide, brass clasps inscribed with a pentagram.

A castle towered over us. It was almost fanciful in design, like one of Mad King Ludwig's pleasure palaces transplanted to...wherever this was.

At the head of the crowd stood a small girl with pink hair. She wore an indecently short skirt and high stockings that seemed to emphasize the problem rather than conceal it. At first glance, I that she reminded me of Benitsubasa.

The impression soon passed. This girl was rail-thin and narrow-hipped. More like a child than anything. She did not have Benitsubasa's tough wiriness. Or the unnatural beauty that Benitsubasa shared with most of her species, for that matter.

The girl's face had reddened. She babbled something to a bald man in a robe and glasses.

Benitsubasa shifted. (Grinding a knee into my back, incidentally).

"Is that French?" she said.

I listened, and found myself furrowing my brows when they started dropping their subjects. Not many close-rounded vowels in evidence, either. But how on earth...?

"I think it's Occitan," I said. "Or some development of the language."

"Yeah, not quite sure what you're talking about," she said. "Can you...ah-?"

She spun her finger in little circles. I nodded, and spoke the appropriate translation Aria.

By the time I'd worked out the spell, though, the pink-haired girl had already approached us.

She leaned close to Benitsubasa and shut her eyes. Her neck craned forward. Their lips almost met. I say "almost" because Benitsubasa grabbed the girl's cloak and held her at arm's length before she made contact.

"Whooooah there, girl. I'm _really_ particular these days about who kisses me. Especially when there's magecraft involved."

"B-but you're my familiar!" the pink-haired girl said. "And-"

I _ahem'd._

"Technically, only one of us was the target of your summoning," I said.

The girl looked at each of us in turn. A tired expression spread across her face. Resigned, almost. She sighed.

"...It's the blob of mercury, isn't it?" she said.

"Right you are."

The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ burbled happily. Silvery lips formed on its surface, and puckered.

The girl wrinkled her nose. She turned to the bald man in glasses, who I assumed was some sort of authority figure. He had an academic air about him...along with a disturbing prana signature that tasted of death and despair. (History professor, perhaps?) Whoever he was, he'd been stroking his chin as the proceedings had unfolded. Staring at us.

"Professor Colbert!" the girl said. "Please tell me I don't have to go through with this."

The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ was making rather sloppy kissing noises. 'Professor Colbert' nudged his _pince-nez_ glasses an imperceptible distance upward.

"I'm afraid that the rules of the Familiar Ritual quite clear, Miss Valliere."

She sighed and looked at the mercury. The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ was pulsating in a way vaguely reminiscent of panting.

Benitsubasa leaned next to my ear.

"Um...the _Hydragyrum's _made of mercury, right?" she said. "Isn't it poisonous?"

"Yes."

"Then shouldn't we...?"

I shrugged.

"As long as our associate isn't a tongue-kisser, she should be fine. Probably," I said.

"And by 'our associate' you mean-"

"The _Hydragyrum_, of course."

A glowing green sigil carved itself onto the mercury's surface. It was shaped like a multi-pointed star, complete with markings I couldn't yet decipher. Rune lore had never been a specialty of mine.

I turned to Professor Colbert. The translation spell did its work admirably.

"Good afternoon," I said. "I'm Meriwether Archibald, heir apparent to the El-Melloi line. I don't suppose you've heard of us, since I'm currently living out a Wellesian boyhood fantasy of mine. Not that you'll understand that reference either. I've arrived from another point in the multiverse, you see."

The man blinked.

"You're a noble?"

"Obviously."

"Uh...come with me. I think you'll need to speak to the Headmaster."

* * *

We headed for the castle. The pink-haired girl (Miss Valliere, I think the academic / murder-technician had called her) trotted behind us. Until, that is, the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ bumped into the girl from behind. She fell backward onto the surface of the mercury with an _eep!_

Yet the collision was apparently intentional. The _Volumen Hydragyrum _formed into a sofa, and floated next to us with the girl still aboard. Her mouth was open.

"Let me down, you _stupid_ familiar!"

The _Hydragyrum's _bubbling reply sounded rather like someone blowing a rasberry. I began to wonder whether my father's repair work had been quite as thorough as he'd believed.

The castle we entered could have used some Classical influence. Or at least a window or two. Nevertheless, I took some interest in the paneled wainscoting that someone had fitted tongue-to-groove along the stone walls. A few of the ceilings were coffered. The scenes carved into the wood, though, were standard medieval fare: figures with large heads scribbling on desks, marching in armor, and generally ignoring the existence of a third dimension. They capered about in neat little lines, like the world's narrowest parade.

The floors were covered in rushes. They lay in squashed layers one atop another. The telltale smell of chamomile and germander perfumes suggested that at least a few of the mats needed replacement.

As we walked, the _Hydragyrum's_ new "master" lectured us about our vacation spot.

I soon discovered that "Miss Valliere" claimed to be _Louise_ de la Valliere. Yet when she didn't appear to understand my subtle probing about prurient relations with a certain gluttonous monarch, I began harboring doubts about the Butterfly Effect. Clearly, the theory needed a few revisions.

On the bright side, Louise de la Valliere was hardly the imbecilic royal mistress from my own world.

She appeared studious, and had a strong sense of propriety in the bargain. Every movement was controlled. Tense. She would not have seemed out of place at the Clock Tower.

Her unease at my presence also augured well for this world's manners. I attributed her reaction to the fact that technically, foreigner or not, I was a (slightly) older nobleman of distinguished-but-unclear rank.

Louise's nation was called Tristain. It lay on a quasi-European continent called Halkeginia, though I soon decided that there was nothing "quasi" about it. Somehow - I wasn't quite sure how, but I suspected it had something to do with the Occitan I'd heard earlier - a cult of Void magic had spread from the steppes to the (pseudo) Atlantic. The cult's rites centered around a saint named Brimir.

Whatever Brimirism's theological niceties were, it appeared to have worked wonders for social relations. Magi no longer hid in the shadows. They _ruled_. A strict caste system between magi and "commoners" ensured that the former profited from the sweat of the latter.

Commoners lived in enforced ignorance of thaumaturgical theory. Laws prohibited them from touching books on magecraft. So _that_ was how they'd avoided the inevitable thaumaturgical decay...

Louise looked at me with a blank expression when I pointed out the advantages of this arrangement. It seemed that she didn't know that a spell known to everyone loses its potency. It was incredible, really: a perfect example of latent function in a world that had never heard of Merton.

I asked about the punishments for breaking Brimir's caste laws. They were...unpleasant.

Indeed, in the course of our trip, Louise told me _quite _a bit more about this odd little country.

I listened with great interest, and checked for understanding as soon as she paused.

"So, to summarize," I said. "Magi in this world can claim commoners' bodies almost on a whim. They've also apparently stalled technological development somewhere in the sixteenth century..."

Louise frowned.

"Wait," she said. "That's not-"

"...They monopolize labor-saving magecraft for themselves," I continued, "providing only the tiniest fraction of their abilities to prevent the peasants (ahem, _their_ peasants) from starving. Yet for some reason, these same peasants apparently grind the grain manually. I can only assume that your magi are too lazy to force the windmills to move."

"We're just _busy_-"

I waved a finger at her.

"Aha, but you're _not_," I said. "Your _peasants _are 'busy', Miss Valliere. Though 'serfs' would seem more appropriate. (Except that Tristain does not appear to have a procedure for manumission). You nobles, on the other hand, don't appear to do anything except breed new nobles and learn a corpus of rules of etiquette so voluminous that it would make a Versailles resident blush."

My hypothetical Versailles resident was not the only one blushing, though. Louise had become oddly quiet, and was looking down at her forefingers as she pushed them together.

I felt a grin spreading across my face.

"Miss Valliere?"

"Y-yes?"

"I _love_ this country."


	28. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

All's well that ends well, as the Bard once remarked. The next steps were simplicity incarnate. The _geis_ worried me for a while, but it wore off. Just as well, since we revealed the existence of Sekirei to the Clock Tower. They didn't accept our new feathered friends at first, but soon the Sekirei Rights Movement took off, and...

...I jest, of course.

No, as titillating as a nonhuman rights movement would have been (for the mentally impaired), I'm afraid that our own path was rather more complicated. Which was just as well. Human rights are bad enough.

Nor did Miya's _geis _"wear off".

And "all" most assuredly did _not_ "end well".

The cover-up took quite a while, for one thing. Ardendolff and Skeares did their work, as one would have expected of two former Enforcers. Kiritsugu's associates performed just as admirably - particularly the Irish assassin with a collage for a name (or, as my father preferred to refer to her behind her back, "that Fenian woman"). Memory spells and the Jinki's ability to deactivate Sekirei did most of the work.

Speaking of memory manipulation, we located Chairman Minaka. Once Karasuba's quasi-magecraft had dissipated, we discovered to our dismay that the bats remained firmly lodged in the belfry.

Minaka seemed rather less ominous in person: a short man in a white cape and bushy white hair. Nimble, though. He'd leaped up from a computer game to greet us, babbling about how _wonderful_ it would be to start a new Sekirei Plan with wizards instead. And something about the visual novel rights.

My father smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and led him to one of MBI's soundproofed rooms. The Chairman emerged far more cooperative.

If Japan's disclosure system mirrored its American counterpart, then I suspect we broke several securities laws when we began secretly acquiring MBI. This didn't stop us. After all, we had the money, we had the power, and we had the connections, too.

The firm of Roberts & DeLacey handled the legal niceties. In this, they merely replicated what they'd done for centuries - ever since the first Archibald magus (a ne'er-do-well younger son, if memory served) had returned from Clive's service as a newly-minted nabob. He'd arrived with a great deal of money that he'd wanted to invest in land. Preferably out-of-the-way land to store the...unusual set of artifacts he'd gathered on the subcontinent. Roberts & DeLacey had obliged. As far as our current predicament was concerned, the firm had opened its first Japanese office a quarter century ago. Just in time for Heaven's Feel.

While the lawyers covered up our transactions through legal routes, Skeares and Ardendolff pursued illegal ones. Many bribes, threats, and memory tamperings undoubtedly followed.

In these endeavors, forcibly recruiting Minaka had its advantages. He'd already managed to conceal the Sekirei Plan to an incredible extent. (Alien technology did part of the work, apparently). MBI's tendrils also controlled half the Japanese bureaucracy. Now they danced for us, and dutifully covered up the mess. Kochou was an asset in this regard, too.

The Clock Tower proved more difficult.

Even with our precautions, some enterprising Enforcer would have found out eventually if we'd just left it at that. The Archibalds hadn't risen to the apex of the Clock Tower's social structure without learning how to hide a few skeletons, and hide them we did...but my father still paid for those favors. Several prominent families received _far _more than they should have in exchange for turning a blind eye to the MBI debacle. (You'll see the import of this presently).

Even so, the Clock Tower would find out eventually. I just hoped that "eventually" would last a few years before the _geis_ killed me.

We discovered Karasuba's batteries.

At least fifteen Sekirei were held in MBI's basement, all unwinged. Most - but not all - were females. They stared with glassy eyes that bespoke severe drugging. But most of them did not stare at _us_. They simply looked into space, or followed nonexistent movements with their eyes. A few drooled. They were not clothed, and most were in restraints. Their prana signatures and bodies bore the marks of amateurish attempts at tantric magecraft.

My father remarked upon the ingenuity of Karasuba's scheme. His _hmm_ sounded almost appreciative when he inspected her notes. For a human, Karasuba's rapid development would have been impossible. But Sekirei could already manipulate prana like few other creatures could.

Benitsubasa and I were rather less amused by Karasuba's "ingenuity", by the way. We deactivated her victims quickly.

Minato and his sister seemed to have fared rather better.

I'd last left them during our fight with the Ashikabis. The Disciplinary Squad had not been fools, for all their brutality. The Sahashi siblings' mother was relatively important in the scheme of things; she'd been Minaka's right hand, and perhaps MBI's only sane upper-tier manager. Karasuba's blend of threats and hypnosis might have malfunctioned if Mrs. (?) Sahashi had discovered her children's deaths. Far better to use them as hostages once their Sekirei had been safely terminated.

They were mostly unharmed. Minato had suffered some head injuries and broken bones, but MBI's medical technology had healed the damage.

We wiped their memories like everyone else. Though I confess to a sliver of regret that I would never be able to reminisce with the younger, insane one.

The Sekirei survived as a species. Barely.

Aside from Benitsubasa and the specimens we'd already killed, the deactivated Sekirei were placed back into suspended animation. Their survival would cause me no end of trouble later on.

On the bright side, it kept them concealed. Which, in turn, kept me alive. My father's acquiescence probably owed something to this fact. We relocated the Sekirei to MBI's subterranean vaults, where bounded fields, magic circuits, wraiths, curses, spatial distortions, and a host of other thaumaturgical precautions guarded them.

At last, I prepared to leave Japan. Benitsubasa would accompany me.

My father was furious, but he was nothing if not a man of his word. A magus, and a nobleman. He'd promised not to kill her, and so she'd survive. Q.E.D. (I also owed him a prana research paper, for what it was worth.) Benitsubasa, for her part, had the good sense not to display open affection for me in the meantime.

Mind you, our relations were hardly sunshine and roses through that period.

I'd pondered my relationship with Benitsubasa for a few days after we'd kissed. Finally, I came to the conclusion that her life with me - much as _I_ might have wanted it - could only end in tragedy.

In the _best _case scenario, Benitsubasa would live out her life as an alien mistress, hidden on the Archibald estate from the rest of the magus community. A dirty secret. It wasn't as if we could have children, either, since we'd both agreed that producing a child handicapped with instincts for instant, unconditional love would be a very bad idea. Such a child would also produce innumerable other complications for both of us, ranging from dangerous to cataclysmic.

...I doubted that even this "best case scenario" would materialize, though.

Benitsubasa and I argued several times in the week before we departed.

I pointed out that I didn't have long to live anyway, since the _geis's _death curse still hung over my head. My father's cover-up wouldn't be perfect. And with me dead, my father would have no reason to shelter Benitsubasa from the Clock Tower (he'd promised to abstain from killing her; _not_ to protect her).

Not to mention the risk of discovery that Benitsubasawould face even _if _I survived...

...I didn't want to watch another attempted dissection of my Sekirei. Ever.

I tried to prevail upon her to leave me, if only to protect her from the twin perils of Clock Tower researchers and my own likelihood of dropping dead. She didn't budge. I also tried _ordering _her to give me up, but that fell just as flat without the Sekirei Crest to enforce it.

The dispute culminated in a rather vicious scene where we both said things we regretted. Especially on my part. In the end, my attempts to play the magus foundered. Benitsubasa didn't believe for a moment that I'd "only saved her out of academic curiosity". Nor did my professed "shame" that I'd failed to dissect her convince either of us.

But my comments hurt her nonetheless. Deeply, I think. I suspect that my (misguided) intention to protect her had been the only thing that stopped a permanent rift from forming. I ultimately gave up.

…Though not before I received a slap that I richly deserved. She apologized. I rubbed my cheek and did the same. We both accepted. I found to my eternal relief that this was enough.

* * *

It took another month of work before we found ourselves sitting on a plane out of Japan, headed for England.

Sunlight ran up the length of the wing, forcing me to squint at the glare. Iced tea swished in a plastic cup. The stewardess's cart squeaked down the aisle, accompanied by her saccharine-sweet _do-you-want-fish-or-pasta-sir? _The air conditioning hissed.

I'd already given up my battle with the seat-back; my attempts to lean back far enough to sleep had failed miserably. And my "pillow" - as the flight attendant had optimistically called the thing - was little more than a lump of cotton fluff wrapped in gauze. Someone snored.

Benitsubasa sat beside me, and smiled. Which somehow made my wakefulness worthwhile.

We touched down in civilization again during the late evening. As Benitsubasa and I danced a sort of two-person scotch reel in the airport lobby (hang propriety; I deserved a break), I vowed never to set foot in that ghastly, hieroglyph-scribbling, rice-eating, cartoon-worshipping country again.

Alas, I would be sorely disappointed in the months to come.

But for now, we arrived safely at the Archibald estate.

The manor house was the product of many hands: bricks baked from local clay, dressed stone from an abandoned monastery nearby, a tin roof, and a central portion with so many windows that the walls seemed to glitter.

It was not until I stepped through the bounded field that I felt the tension dissipate from my shoulders. I inhaled that wonderful, familiarly-unfamiliar scent of home you never notice until a long absence. The place smelled of wood paneling, book bindings, pennyroyal, and red mint.

My father had chosen to remain in Japan for a few more days, and my mother hadn't yet arrived from America. (To my relief, given my recent activities). With the Lord and Lady of the house thus occupied, I did what any self-respecting magus would do for an attractive guest: I gave Benitsubasa a tour.

John Dee had built manor's main building (and guarded it with bounded fields) when the Archibalds were still a collection of country gentry. Even this did not quite plumb the depths of the site's history. Dee had built it on the ruins of a monastery, which in turn had played host to a swine cult during pre-Roman times. The main building's galleries, great chamber, and dining parlor bore the marks of Alberti's influence. The windows still had lattices. In the old days, servants would have removed the window glass when it wasn't in use.

Canny old Silas Archibald - the second magus of the line - had added a wing with the treasures he'd looted from Tipu Sultan, complete with marble floors and a collection of (also looted) Greek art that would have made the Elgins blush.

Yet the _truly_ impressive portions of the manor had been built in the middle of the 19th century, when the Archibalds had come into their own as magi. The Gothic wing had taken shape during that time: a product of the English branch's superior magecraft combined with money from the American branch's Lowell mill investments.

Stained glass windows changed colors as one walked. Portraits hung under them. They depicted the successive heads of the Archibald family, dressed in everything from stockings, periwigs, and smallswords to Victorian suits. (Along with a portrait of Henry Cabot Lodge. Nobody knew where it had come from, but we kept it just in case).

Latin inscriptions appeared under the portraits, drawn from each ancestor's writings in life. They were long excerpts, and I found that, as I read, the writers' sentiments and mindsets gradually merged with my own. Soul fragments had inhered in the ink. It was an intoxicating pastime, touching the past like that. And dangerous. I pulled away.

Benitsubasa and I passed under a stone arch. Perhaps "arch" was a bit generous. It resembled nothing so much as a cave entrance; a hole that lead to the lair of some Anchorite hermit. The interior was rather different.

When Benitsubasa gasped, I tried to stop myself from grinning like a schoolboy. I failed.

It was an underground cathedral. Spatial distortions had worked wonders for its builders: its vaulted ceiling was _far _higher than Beauvais or Salisbury - so high, in fact, that one could scarcely see it through the thaumaturgically-crafted clouds that hovered below. Our breaths condensed somewhere beyond this cloud cover, waiting to rain down again. A private weather system.

Despite its clouds and its location underground, though, the design shared its mundane cousins' most salient characteristic: light. The sun's rays streamed in through stained glass windows, collected from thaumaturgically-woven nets aboveground. Thin columns gave the building a bright, airy atmosphere. The traditional flying buttresses were more decorative than anything, placed there so that the piers could accommodate statues or pinnacles. Magecraft did the heavy lifting.

A fountain flowed in midair, supported on a pedestal of wind. The water ran down invisible conic walls, so that the entire thing looked like a transparent volcano. Golden statues of nymphs danced to the sound of panpipes. They were life-sized, and their metal chitons billowed so convincingly that they almost seemed diaphanous.

"Well," I said. "Shall we eat?"

"Y-yeah..."

All in all, the manor was a curious monument to a family that had cut itself off from Anglo-American civilization centuries before. We were not English aristocrats. Not really. Nor were we members of the Eastern Establishment, if such a thing still existed. Even a century ago, the average Oxbridge gentleman or Boston Brahmin would have thought there was something decidedly _odd_ about the Archibalds. Habit and _habitus_ alike had crystalized among us in different ways. Different customs had emerged.

We were more like a lost medieval tribe that the Enlightenment had passed by. A tribe that absorbed luxury goods from the cultures around it, yes, but only like some deranged cargo cult. Our artifacts were little points of contact, relics of moments when our artistic tastes had coincided with the rest of humanity's. Each time, we'd parted ways again: they to their own cultural evolution, and we to ours. Taking our "prizes" with us.

Everything about the Archibald estate was so _very _backward-looking. Self-referential. An incestuous sort of house, in a way. But it was mine nonetheless.

I lead Benitsubasa to the great hall. Our footsteps' _clops_ echoed and re-echoed through marble hallways. When we turned a corner, Turkish carpets muffled the sound. Servants made themselves properly scarce. Invisible, as servants should be.

Figures in the coffered ceiling's plaster work watched us enter, just as they'd watched eight generations of Archibalds before me. I'd played under them as a boy. And so, probably, had my father.

They'd been made sometime during the Napoleonic wars - inspired, perhaps, by the success of that ghastly _Ossian_ forgery. Their creator must have used Hiberno-Norse carvings as a model, since their gaping mouths, wide eyes, and frizzy facial hair reminded me of longship prows. Yet someone had sculpted Classical elements into their designs. Muscled torsos, delicate ringlets in their hair, and all that. The overall effect was ugly, awkward...and unique to the Archibald estate. I felt my breath catch for the briefest of moments at the familiarity.

Benitsubasa whistled.

"So this is home, huh?"

I sat down at the high table. My fingers closed around the armrests' wooden claws. When I leaned back, the chair creaked.

"Yes," I said. "This is home."

"Well, at least I married into money."

I smiled and snapped my fingers. Household staff - some spirits, some poorer magi - flowed into the room like a servile tidal wave.

Ordinarily, supper was a ritual at House Archibald. Our hall had not been built for private meals. That night, though, I felt rather too tired and hungry, and the hall was close at hand. The staff would just have to improvise.

Yeomen of the Ewery and Pantry bowed as they entered. The Chief Usher - a leering, fiendish-looking spirit named Grey Tam - kissed his hand and touched the center of the table. His subordinates dutifully arranged the white damask cloth and silver salt cellars. Bread and cutlery followed. The latter consisted of a dizzying array of specialized forks, knives, and spoons. In lieu of glasses, the servants presented each of us with millennia-old _kylikes_. More of Silas Archibald's looted treasures.

Benitsubasa placed a napkin on her lap. The Chief Usher _a-chem'd_, ignoring Benitsubasa's baffled expression when he replaced the napkin on her arm and secured it with a pin. Another custom we'd appropriated from the now-absent Dr. Dee.

I dipped my hands in a golden basin. The water was cool, but not cold. Benitsubasa did the same. Rather hesitantly, I thought; she looked around as if expecting someone to jump out and correct her. We dried our hands on linen towels.

The servants departed for the moment.

If you've never seen a Japanese-educated killing machine trying to puzzle out which spoon is designed for soup, then I heartily recommend the experience. Primarily because it gives one the opportunity to softly take her hand and place it on the appropriate piece of cutlery.

Several courses followed. Most dishes were meats of some sort - beef, veal, duck, peacock, badger, crane, and dove - all cooked with fruit to give them a sweeter edge. The eel and porpoise were particularly well prepared, I thought.

And of course, wine. Just enough to loosen my body's residual areas of stiffness.

Benitsubasa tried a chocolate drink before I could warn her. She grimaced at the bitter taste. I offered her a piece of gingerbread instead, flavored with almond milk and cinnamon. She tasted it, and nodded approvingly. To my surprise, she also found our clove- and sandalwood-flavored sweets to her liking.

It was not until midnight that we finished, leaving our broken meats to the servants. They looked decidedly unhappy that we hadn't decided to play cards for the evening (thereby robbing them of their playing box bonus).

I walked (newly-acquired limp and all) with Benitsubasa to my quarters. While I trusted my father's word, I was not enough of a fool to keep Benitsubasa around the house without protection. My workshop had its own bounded field. It adjoined my bedroom.

My room, incidentally, was exactly as I had left it.

My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's teak chest sat at the far end, crammed with a decade of my experiments. Its golden lock was still in place. A game of Tamerlane's chess waited half-finished on a wooden chessboard inlaid with silver. Bits of topaz glittered in the elephants' eyes and the viziers' cloaks. Sometime soon, I'd have to teach Benitsubasa the variant. As my father had often remarked, chess _de la dama_ is a game best left for children and wage workers. Any game worth its salt should last more than a few hours.

Benitsubasa glanced at the bed, a columned monstrosity modeled on the Bed of Ware (scaled down, naturally). Her eyes traced the velvet curtains and embroidered pillow-beres. A smile crept across her face.

"So, Meri..." she said.

Her lilt did not escape my notice, though I hadn't yet divined its significance.

"Hm?"

"Your parents are out," she said.

"Er, yes. As I mentioned earlier, they shouldn't be back for a few-"

"And you promised your dad - and I quote - 'a publishable paper' about nonhuman prana manipulation."

"Ah, yes," I said. "I'd almost forgotten about that. I suspect that it will take _some_ of the sting out of my ultimatum if I can show my father the practical benefits from our - Oh... I see what you're getting at."

Benitubasa giggled.

She took my hand, pulling me gently toward the bed as she removed her hair clips. Pink hair billowed down. Her tongue traced the edges of her mouth. I noticed once again how very fetching those large eyes and delicate cheekbones looked. Not to mention those long, toned legs in nylon stockings, disappearing as they did into her short skirt-

"Er - ah, _ahem._"

Benitubasa lay back on my bed, smirking as she undid the buttons of her blouse one...by...one...

I confess that I didn't obtain many research notes during that first...prana ritual.

Indeed, as I recall, I stammered and blushed more in the first few minutes than I had when I'd read transcriptions of Pompeii's graffiti as a boy. Benitsubasa was tolerant, though. And _incredibly _patient. She only laughed at me a little.

The experiment ended satisfactorily for both of us, by the way. We decided to replicate our results as frequently as possible. Not that it's anyone else's business.

* * *

Yet all idylls must come to an end, and the months that followed the Sekirei Plan were no exception.

As time passed, servants started bustling through the halls. They often trundled strange and wonderful items up from the family vaults. Deliveries began arriving in greater numbers than usual, and always in grey crates. My father did not emerge from his workshop for days. When he did, dark rings were clearly in evidence under his eyes.

I heard him talking with Clock Tower colleagues through various thaumaturgical communication devices. Their conversations grew louder as time passed. Finally, they became shouting matches.

One evening, he came to dinner with mercury stains on his coat. It was an act that would have been unthinkable a month before. The wrinkles on his face - barely noticeable when he'd rescued me from Shin Tokyo - had deepened. Or so it seemed to me, anyway.

Yet for the longest time, I didn't notice.

My prana research paper remained at the forefront of my mind, you see - and not just because of my rather enjoyable research sessions with Benitsubasa. For all the desperation of my "research proposal" to my father, I'd actually been correct. Tantric rituals with Sekirei _did_ hold the key to several breakthroughs. If one could harness that inhuman efficiency for regular magecraft...

So I wrote. And wrote. To my (slight) surprise, Benitsubasa proved as capable a research assistant as she'd been a warrior. Far from being a passive test subject, she hit upon a few interesting points that I'd ignored. With only a few months' exposure to magecraft, at that. The final product owed a debt to her suggestions.

And then, my father collapsed.

I've remarked on a few occasions that my mother was not an entirely cold woman. Sola-Ui Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri, First Lady El-Melloi, could not suppress a gasp when my father slumped from the table, dragging the tablecloth and several articles of fine silver crashing down with him. Nor did she stand on ceremony. She rushed to him.

I was right behind her. Until, that is, she jabbed a finger in my direction.

"_You_ will stay out of this, Meriwether. You've done enough."

Mother rummaged through my father's coat. Her hands stopped suddenly, pulling out a knobbed, brass cylinder with pyrite settings. I recognized it. It was a thought accelerator. My grandfather on my father's side had invented it to facilitate short bursts of mental effort. It was not designed for constant strain.

My mother, as astute readers have doubtless already guessed, hadn't been pleased by my recent activities. True: she didn't know all of the details. (My father had, "refrained from explaining to your mother the myriad ways in which you have shamed the family", as he'd put it). She knew enough, though.

That didn't entirely explain her words.

"What's going on, Mother?"

She told me. I felt sickened afterwards.

Kiritsugu had made a wise choice during the Fourth War. The corruption in the Vessel – Kiritsugu's wife – had become obvious toward the end. Or at least obvious enough, to signal that _something_ was very wrong. He'd gone to my father. While Lord El-Melloi might have hated the Japanese hit man with every fibre of his being, he'd also been the War's only Euryphis lecturer.

His Servant had died already. Kiritsugu's offer had therefore given him a second chance at glory: not as a combatant, but as the man who'd saved the world from a cursed wish-granting device. He'd seized that lifeline with both hands. The two of them had demolished the System after a variety of rather unpleasant incidents, including opposition from a "priest" (I use the term loosely) named Kirei Kotomine. Or Kotomine Kirei. However that works.

This much, I knew already.

What I didn't know was the sheer volume of political wrangling that had followed. Once again, Kiritsugu's good judgment had shone through. Even the Einzberns, his nominal patrons, never would have taken a hired hit man's word about the ritual's corruption. But my father? A spiritual summoning expert? Famed Euryphis lecturer? Head of one of the Clock Tower's most powerful families? Now _that_ was quite a different matter.

...Almost.

Even for those who believed him, my father's actions had left a rather important question: what to do with Heaven's Feel. Many wanted to repair the wish-granting device and try again. Others wanted to destroy it, arguing that the corruption ran too deep. My father fell into the latter group. Ultimately, the contending parties had reached a compromise: the System would be dismantled, but not so thoroughly as to make reassembly impossible. The compromise had pleased no one.

It was largely my father's influence that had ensured the System remained dismantled for the last quarter-century. He'd opposed ever-more-frantic calls for "repair and renewal". Matters had nearly broken out into armed conflict at one point, but the possibility of eventual political victory (and the new Heaven's Feel that it would inevitably bring) had been _just_ enough to stave off catastrophe.

...Until I'd been _geis'd_ during a foolhardy supernatural tournament.

My father's cover-up had required political favors. Many political favors. I just hadn't realized _which_ favors it had compelled him to call in.

They'd demanded to revive the War.

The Einzberns had been particularly vocal. With my father blackmailed into silence, even the Tohsaka heiress - a loud, pigtailed girl who dressed like a Parisian prostitute - had publicly expressed "skepticism about Lord El-Melloi's dubious conclusions". Admittedly she hadn't known about the blackmail scheme.

I suppose Tohsaka Rin had reason to crow. If Heaven's Feel revived, she would have had a very good chance of winning it. She still had a relic from the Golden King, after all. The same Servant who could have carried her father to victory if not for Kirei.

I'd only met Miss Tohsaka once, by the way. She'd struck me as a prodigy with more intelligence than judgment. But then, considering her mentor, I suppose that came with the territory. (I concede that I'm hardly an unbiased observer. My father had rubbed Miss Tohsaka the wrong way in one of his classes, and she'd repaid the favor).

In any event, my summer vacation had removed the keystone from the opposition to a new War. Heaven's Feel had gathered too much momentum now. It would proceed.

It was a week away, in fact.

And the others...? I'd heard rumors that the Edelfelt family had followed the Einzberns' example and hired an assassin. As for the Einzberns themselves, I doubted they'd trust Kiritsugu again. But the Magus Killer would probably come regardless, even though he hadn't been particularly healthy of late. The Matou would send somebody or other. Probably not a photographer this time.

...Which explained my father's efforts to reconstruct his _Hydragyrum_, along with the rest of his thaumaturgical armory. Before he'd dropped from exhaustion, he'd managed to replicate years of work in a few months.

My father was carried to his room to recover.

* * *

I did not sleep that night.

Instead, I put in a call to Ilya, and we worked out an arrangement. She had the same problem, it seemed.

I found myself waiting at the threshold after midnight.

My hands were numb. Puffs of breath condensed into fog. Like our ancestors before us, the current crop of Archibalds relied on fireplaces. I found my gaze fixating on one of the floor's tiles before I shook my head. Sand from sleep irritated my eyes. I blinked, and rubbed them.

So quiet, too.

An invisibility field sheltered me from our servants. Around me were stacked the lightest and most portable items from Father's arsenal. The new _Volumen Hydragyrum_ carried most of them. I prepared a note:

* * *

_To His Father Kayneth Archibald, First Lord El-Melloi, KG, D.D., Ph.D., L.L.M. (Tax), Senior Euryphis Lecturer and Head of the Spiritual Invocation Division, Clock Tower, London; Special Consultant to the Hellsing Organization (ret.); Fellow of the Royal Society; Meriwether Archibald, Unworthy El-Melloi Heir Apparent, Sends Greetings With Filial Contrition:_

_Herodotus opined sons must bury their fathers in peace, while fathers must bury their sons in war. And so, I am afraid, it must be with us. War has come. It is my turn to do the family's dying._

_It is therefore with the greatest regret that I must disappoint you once again. In light of your recent condition - not to mention the undeniable fact that this catastrophe was my fault - I have taken it upon myself to fight in your stead. I hope that you will forward the remaining equipment to Fuyuki when I arrive. _

_If nothing else, I am far more expendable than you are. Miya's death curse has seen to that. Just as importantly, though, we shall need all of your influence at the Clock Tower if the new Vessel turns out to be as cursed as the old one. It must be destroyed permanently. This would prove difficult if you were killed. _

_I will also add in passing that the Archibald family shouldn't risk its Thaumaturgical Crest in a game like this. Still...let's hope that I come back with my shield rather than upon it, as the Ancients would say. _

_I remain your loyal son (though I concede that it may be difficult to notice at times like this),_

_Meriwether Archibald, El-Melloi Heir Apparent._

* * *

I didn't include the obvious: that my father had almost died for my mistake once, and I had no desire to let it happen now.

My father's Servant-summoning artifacts hung in a velvet satchel on my back. Both of them.

The first had come from my father's display case. It was an ancient mantle; a trophy (of sorts) from the Fourth War. The second souvenir was of more recent vintage. My father had acquired it during a Euryphis consulting assignment. It was an enormous pistol. The long, blocky barrel bore the inscription _".454 Cassul"_ in cursive script.

I would decide which artifact use when I got there, but I didn't want to take the risk that my father would somehow summon a Servant first. That only solved _half_ of my problem, though. My father's half.

What to do about Benitsubasa? I couldn't leave her here. Obviously not. Nor could I ask her to risk her life for my family's sake.

"Meri? What's going on?"

I sighed.

Benitsubasa had spoken in a whisper. She tiptoed down the stairs. Her bare feet made the gentlest _pat-pat_ as they touched stone, like a cat's tread. A black nightgown trailed behind her. It swished against the steps.

With another sigh, I dispelled the invisibility field.

"You knew where to look for me," I said.

"Yeah, I figured you'd try something like this," she said.

"I don't suppose I can convince you not to follow-"

"Nope."

"At least consider it."

Benitsubasa crossed her arms, and made a show of inspecting my piles of baggage.

"I've considered," she said. "Probably better than _you_ have, judging from your half-assed packing job. See, I figure that if your 'repaired' wish-granting thingy's still corrupted, most of the world's gonna die anyway."

"Conceded."

"And if it _works_, then I'd prefer to use it to get rid of Miya's _geis_. Rather than...oh, I dunno...letting your xeno-hating, insane father get a wish instead."

"Again, conceded. But the _geis_ you mentioned makes me expendable, whereas-"

"No," she said. "You're not."

I scowled, but knew better to press further. Benitsubasa hopped onto the _Volumen Hydragyrum_ and smirked. Black lace billowed around her as she sat.

"...Soooo. When do we leave for Fuyuki, Oh-Ashikabi-Mastermind-Of-Mine?" she said.

"As soon as you put on something less...indecent."

She raised an eyebrow.

"'Indecent'? Meri, we've already had sex. Repeatedly. For months."

"I note that we're not having sex right now."

"Keep this up, and 'right now' might last a lot longer than you think."

"As I recall, only one of us comes from a species with an overactive libido."

She rolled her eyes and reached behind the tapestry. A suitcase emerged. Fully packed. I couldn't stop my eyes from widening when I realized that Benitsubasa had known I was planning to leave before I'd decided to do so.

"You're the biggest freaking prude I've ever met," she said.

"Perhaps you would have preferred someone like Minato? I'm sure I could find a few harem-mates for you somewhere..."

Benitsubasa snorted in a rather unladylike fashion.

"Yeah, good luck with that. Most girls prefer guys from this century. Or, you know. Sane ones. Still...point."

Benitsubasa slipped into her fighting gi. It was the first time she'd worn it since we'd left Shin Tokyo. Her pink gloves followed. Velcro fastenings crackled.

I motioned to the _Volumen Hydragyrum_. It bowed with a _slorping_ sound as its instinctive deference to those of El-Melloi blood activated. Silvery tentacles coiled around the doorknob. It turned with a click.

"Besides..." I said. "It isn't as if I hold myself to a different standard. You don't see me prancing about in a speedo, do you?"

"...And the world breathes a sigh of relief."

"Indeed."

The _Volumen Hydragyrum_ distorted into a narrow column, clearing the path for us. The world's most dangerous usher. Our bags bumped as they remained attached to its elongated surface. Rather like a Christmas tree, in fact, except with artifacts of doom instead of ornaments.

"Well?" I said. "Shall we?"

Benitsubasa punched a gloved fist into her palm with a loud pop. Slowly - ever so slowly - a toothy grin appeared. It was the same grin I'd seen when Benitsubasa had driven her knee into Mitsuho's face.

"Oh, yes," she said.

And with that, we began our journey toward the Fifth War.

* * *

**A/N:** First off, thank you. Reader comments have been very helpful when writing and improving this story.

I decided not to tempt fate (no pun intended) by writing a lemon toward the end. My attempts at warm and fluffy moments are bad enough. I shudder to think what Meriwether's first-person description of a sex scene would sound like.

(Though others are free to write one if they're so inclined...)

A cliffhanger ending, I know. But I figure that a magus's life in the Nasuverse is a bit like that - one adventure (or experiment) after another, with only a little breathing room in between. There's a reason that magi need to remind themselves that they walk with death.

I'd be willing to write a sequel if enough people want one. Not sure if a sequel would be better or worse, but it would certainly take into account any critiques I receive on the first installment of _Postnuptial Disagreements. _It would also include a lot more of the FSN canon cast (plus several from F/Z and perhaps Tsukihime), so there's that as well.

On another note, _Postnup _has been a fairly successful proof-of-concept when it comes to writing a story quickly. If a sequel does appear, it'll probably update frequently as well. Maybe not quite at _Postnup_'s pace, but close.

For the next week or two, though, I'll probably cut back. Maybe outline a couple stories in other fandoms, write a few drabbles, and type a bit of original fiction. That kind of thing.

As for other story possibilities (if I don't write about _Postnup's_ Heaven's Feel, which is probably what I'll end up doing):

A post-4th War Waver Velvet murder mystery set in the Clock Tower has been bouncing around my head recently. (Along with a strange idea about a buddy-cop-ish vampire hunting story with Abel Nightroad and Alexander Anderson as his loony partner, but I sincerely doubt I'll write that). Heck, maybe I could expand _The Hill of Ethnographic Footnotes_ if people REALLY wanted me to.

And of course, I'll be here to answer any questions, take suggestions, etc.

Thanks for reading.


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